s  record  of  births  and  deaths  is  copied  from  the  Porter 
Family  Bible,  just  lately  discovered. 

BIRTHS 

ALGERNON  SIDNEY  PORTER 

Son  of 
SIDNEY  AND  RUTH  C.  PORTER 

Was    born 
August  22,  1825 

MONDAY  EVENING,  May  29,  1858 

Still-born  Son  of 
A.  S.  AND  M.  V.  PORTER 

MONDAY,  August  6,  1860,  9  o'clock  P.  M. 
SHIRLEY  WORTH 

Son   of 
A.  S.  AND  M.  V.  PORTER 

THURSDAY,  September  11,  1862,  9  o'clock  p.  M, 
*WILLIAM  SIDNEY 

Son   of 
A.  S.  AND  M.  V.  PORTER 

Su  JDAY,  March  26,  1865,  at  8  o'clock  A.  M. 
DAVID  WEIR 

Son  of 

A.  S.  AND  M.  V.  PORTER 
*  O.  HENKY 


*MARY  JANE  VIRGINIA  SWAIM 

Daughter  of 
WILLIAM  AND  ABIAH  SWAIM 

Was  born 
February  12,  1833 

DEATHS 

MARY  VIRGINIA  PORTER 

TUESDAY  EVENING,  September  26,  1865 

At  7:30  o'clock 

ATHOL  ESTES  PORTER 

SUNDAY  EVENING,  July  25,  1897 

At  6  o'clock 

ALGERNON  SIDNEY  PORTER 

SUNDAY  MORNING,  September  30,  1888 

At  20  minutes  of  2  o'clock 

i 
MOTHER  OF  O.  HENRY 


xviii 


O.  HENRY 

O.  Henry,  Afrite-Chef  of  all  delight  — 

Of  all  delectables  conglomerate 

That  stay  the  starved  brain  and  rejuvenate 

The  Mental  Man !     The  aesthetic  appetite  — 

So  long  enhungered  that  the  "  inards  "  fight 

And  growl  gutwise  —  its  pangs  thou  dost  abate 

And  all  so  amiably  alleviate, 

Joy  pats  his  belly  as  a  hobo  might 

Who  haply  hath  obtained  a  cherry  pie 

With  no  burnt  crust  at  all,  ner  any  seeds; 

Nothin'  but  crisp  crust,  and  the  thickness  fit, 

And  squashin'-juicy,  an'  jes'  mighty  nigh 

Too  dratted,  drippin '-sweet  for  human  needs, 

But  fer  the  sosh  of  milk  that  goes  with  it. 

Written  in  the  character  of  "  Sherrard 
Plummer  "  by  James  Whitcomb  Riley 


By  permission  of  James  Whitcomb  Riley  and 
his  publishers,  The  Bobbs-Merrill  Company 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 


Introduction ix 

The  Dream .  3 

A  Ruler  of  Men 8 

The  Atavism  of  John  Tom  Little  Bear     ....  34 

Helping  the  Other  Fellow 53 

The  Marionettes 65 

The  Marquis  and  Miss  Sally 84 

A  Fog  in  Santone 100 

The  Friendly  Call 112 

A  Dinner  At * 127 

Sound  and  Fury 140 

Tictocq 146 

Tracked  to  Doom 157 

A  Snapshot  at  the  President 167 

An  Unfinished  Christmas  Story 174 

The  Unprofitable  Servant    ........  181 

Aristocracy  Versus  Hash 199 

The  Prisoner  of  Zembla 202 

A  Strange  Story 205 

Fickle  Fortune,  or  How  Gladys  Hustled  ....  207 

An  Apology 212 

vii 


CONTENTS  viii 


PAGE 


Lord  Oakhurst's  Curse 213 

Bexar  Script  No.  2692 217 

Queries  and  Answers .231 

The  Pewee 234 

Nothing  to  Say 236 

The  Murderer 237 

Some  Postscripts 240 

A  Contribution 240 

The  Old  Farm 241 

Vanity 241 

The  Lullaby  Boy .242 

Chanson  de  Boheme 242 

Hard  to  Forget 243 

Drop  a  Tear  in  this  Slot 245 

Tamales      ....           246 

Some  Letters   .  251 


INTRODUCTION 

This  the  twelfth  and  final  volume  of  0.  Henry's  work 
gets  its  title  from  an  early  newspaper  venture  of  which 
he  was  the  head  and  front.  On  April  28,  1894,  there 
appeared  in  Austin,  Texas,  volume  1,  number  3,  of  The 
Rolling  Stone,  with  a  circulation  greatly  in  excess  of  that 
of  the  only  two  numbers  that  had  gone  before.  Appar 
ently  the  business  office  was  encouraged.  The  first  two 
issues  of  one  thousand  copies  each  had  been  bought  up. 
Of  the  third  an  edition  of  six  thousand  was  published  and 
distributed  free,  so  that  the  business  men  of  Austin,  Texas, 
might  know  what  a  good  medium  was  at  hand  for  their 
advertising.  The  editor  and  proprietor  and  illustrator 
of  The  Rolling  Stone  was  Will  Porter,  incidentally  Paying 
and  Receiving  Teller  in  Major  Brackenridge's  bank. 

Perhaps  the  most  characteristic  feature  of  the  paper 
was  "The  Plunkville  Patriot,"  a  page  each  week  —  or  at 
least  with  the  regularity  of  the  somewhat  uncertain 
paper  itself  —  purporting  to  be  reprinted  from  a  con 
temporary  journal.  The  editor  of  the  Plunkville  Patriot 
was  Colonel  Aristotle  Jordan,  unrelenting  enemy  of  his 
enemies.  When  the  Colonel's  application  for  the  post- 
mastership  in  Plunkville  is  ignored,  his  columns  carry 
a  bitter  attack  on  the  administration  at  Washington. 


Rolling  Stones 


THE 
ROLLING  STONE 

is  a  weekly  paper  published  in  Austin,  Texas, 
every  Saturday  and  will  endeavor  to  fill  a 
long-felt  want  that  does  not  appear, 
by  the  way,  to  be  altogether  in 
satiable  at  present. 

THE  IDEA  IS 

to  fill  its  pages  with  matter  that  will  make  a 

heart-rending   appeal  to  every  lover  of 

good  literature,  and  every  person  who 

has  a  taste  for  reading  print; 

and  a  dollar  and  a  half  for 

a  year's  subscription. 

OUR  SPECIAL  PREMIUM 

For  the  next  thirty  days  and  from  that  time 
on  indefinitely,  whoever  will  bring  two  dol 
lars  in  cash  to  The  Rolling  Stone  office 
will  be  entered  on  the  list  of  sub 
scribers  for  one  year  and  will 
have    returned    to    him 
on  the  spot 

FIFTY  CENTS  IN  CASH 

The  editor's  own  statement  of  his  aims 


Introduction 

With  the  public  weal  at  heart,  the  Patriot  announces 
that  "there  is  a  dangerous  hole  in  the  front  steps  of  the 
Elite  saloon."  Here,  too,  appears  the  delightful  literary 
item  that  Mark  Twain  and  Charles  Egbert  Craddock 
are  spending  the  summer  together  in  their  Adirondacks 
camp.  "Free,"  runs  its  advertising  column,  "a  clergy 
man  who  cured  himself  of  fits  will  send  one  book  con 
taining  100  popular  songs,  one  repeating  rifle,  two  decks 
easy  winner  cards  and  1  liver  pad  free  of  charge  for  $8. 
Address  Sucker  &  Chump,  Augusta,  Me."  The  office 
moves  nearly  every  week,  probably  in  accordance  with 
the  time-honored  principle  involving  the  comparative 
ease  of  moving  and  paying  rent.  When  the  Colonel 
publishes  his  own  candidacy  for  mayor,  he  further  de 
clares  that  the  Patriot  will  accept  no  announcements 
for  municipal  offices  until  after  "our"  (the  editor's) 
canvass.  Adams  &  Co.,  grocers,  order  their  $2.25  ad. 
discontinued  and  find  later  in  the  Patriot  this  estimate  of 
their  product:  "No  less  than  three  children  have  been 
poisoned  by  eating  their  canned  vegetables,  and  J.  O. 
Adams,  the  senior  member  of  the  firm,  was  run  out  of 
Kansas  City  for  adulterating  codfish  balls.  It  pays  to 
advertise."  Here  is  the  editorial  in  which  the  editor  first 
announces  his  campaign:  "Our  worthy  mayor,  Colonel 
Henry  Stutty,  died  this  morning  after  an  illness  of  about 
five  minutes,  brought  on  by  carrying  a  bouquet  to  Mrs. 
Eli  Watts  just  as  Eli  got  in  from  a  fishing  trip.  Ten 
minutes  later  we  had  dodgers  out  announcing  our  candi 
dacy  for  the  office.  We  have  lived  in  Plunkville  going  on 

xi 


Rolling  Stones 

five  years  and  have  never  been  elected  anything  yet.  We 
understand  the  mayor  business  thoroughly  and  if  elected 
some  people  will  wish  wolves  had  stolen  them  from  their 
cradles.  ..." 

The  page  from  the  Patriot  is  presented  with  an  array 
of  perfectly  confused  type,  of  artistic  errors  in  setting  up, 
and  when  an  occasional  line  gets  shifted  (intentionally, 
of  course)  the  effect  is  alarming.  Anybody  who  knows 
the  advertising  of  a  small  country  weekly  can,  as  he 
reads,  pick  out,  in  the  following,  the  advertisement  from 
the  "personal." 

Miss  Hattie  Green  of  Paris,  111.,  is 

Steel-riveted  steam  or  water  power 

automatic  oiling  thoroughly  tested 

visiting  her  sister  Mrs.  G.  W.  Grubes 

Little  Giant  Engines  at  Adams  &  Co. 

Also  Sachet  powders  Me.  Cormick  Reapers  and 

oysters. 

All  of  this  was  a  part  of  The  Rolling  Stone,  which 
flourished,  or  at  least  wavered,  in  Austin  during  the  years 
1894  and  1895.  Years  before,  Porter's  strong  instinct  to 
write  had  been  gratified  in  letters.  He  wrote,  in  his 
twenties,  long  imaginative  letters,  occasionally  stuffed 
with  execrable  puns,  but  more  than  often  buoyant,  truly 
humorous,  keenly  incisive  into  the  unreal,  especially 
in  fiction.  I  have  included  a  number  of  these  letters 
to  Doctor  Beall  of  Greensboro,  N.  C.,  and  to  his  early 
friend  in  Texas,  Mr.  David  Harrell. 

In  1895-1896  Porter  went  to  Houston,  Texas,  to  work 


Introduction 

on  the  Houston  Post.  There  he  "conducted"  a  column 
which  he  called  "Postscripts."  Some  of  the  contents 
of  the  pages  that  follow  have  been  taken  from  these  old 
files  in  the  fair  hope  that  admirers  of  the  matured  O.  Henry- 
will  find  in  them  pleasurable  marks  of  the  later  genius. 
Before  the  days  of  The  Rolling  Stone  there  are  eleven 
years  in  Texas  over  which,  with  the  exception  of  the 
letters  mentioned,  there  are  few  "traces"  of  literary 
performance;  but  there  are  some  very  interesting  draw 
ings,  some  of  which  are  reproduced  in  this  volume. 
A  story  is  back  of  them.  They  were  the  illustrations 
to  a  book.  "Joe"  Dixon,  prospector  and  inveterate 
fortune-seeker,  came  to  Austin  from  the  Rockies  in  1883, 
at  the  constant  urging  of  his  old  pal,  Mr.  John  Maddox, 
"Joe,"  kept  writing  Mr.  Maddox,  "your  fortune's  in 
your  pen,  not  your  pick.  Come  to  Austin  and  write  an 
account  of  your  adventures."  It  was  hard  to  woo 
Dixon  from  the  gold  that  wasn't  there,  but  finally  Maddox 
wrote  him  he  must  come  and  try  the  scheme.  "There's 
a  boy  here  from  North  Carolina,"  wrote  Maddox.  "His 
name  is  Will  Porter  and  he  can  make  the  pictures.  He's 
all  right."  Dixon  came.  The  plan  was  that,  after 
Author  and  Artist  had  done  their  work,  Patron  would 
step  in,  carry  the  manuscript  to  New  York,  bestow  it  on 
a  deserving  publisher  and  then  return  to  await,  with  the 
other  two,  the  avalanche  of  royalties.  This  version  of 
the  story  comes  from  Mr.  Maddox.  There  were  forty 
pictures  in  all  and  they  were  very  true  to  the  life  of  the 
Rockies  in  the  seventies.  Of  course,  the  young  artist  had 

xiii 


Rolling  Stones 

no  "technique"  —  no  anything  except  what  was  native. 
But  wait!  As  the  months  went  by,  Dixon  worked  hard, 
but  he  began  to  have  doubts.  Perhaps  the  book  was 
no  good.  Perhaps  John  would  only  lose  his  money. 
He  was  a  miner,  not  a  writer,  and  he  ought  not  to  let 
John  go  to  any  expense.  The  result  of  this  line  of  thought 
was  the  Colorado  River  for  the  manuscript  and  the  high 
road  for  the  author.  The  pictures,  fortunately,  were 
saved.  Most  of  them  Porter  gave  later  to  Mrs.  Hagel- 
stein  of  San  Angelo,  Texas.  Mr.  Maddox,  by  the  way, 
finding  a  note  from  Joe  that  "explained  all,"  hastened 
to  the  river  and  recovered  a  few  scraps  of  the  great  book 
that  had  lodged  against  a  sandbar.  But  there  was  no 
putting  them  together  again. 

So  much  for  the  title.  It  is  a  real  O.  Henry  title. 
Contents  of  this  last  volume  are  drawn  not  only  from 
letters,  old  newspaper  files,  and  The  Rolling  Stone,  but 
from  magazines  and  unpublished  manuscripts.  Of  the 
short  stories,  several  were  written  at  the  very  height  of 
his  powers  and  popularity  and  were  lost,  inexplicably, 
but  lost.  Of  the  poems,  there  are  a  few  whose  author 
ship  might  have  been  in  doubt  if  the  compiler  of  this 
collection  had  not  secured  external  evidence  that  made 
them  certainly  the  work  of  O.  Henry.  Without  this  very 
strong  evidence,  they  might  have  been  rejected  because 
they  were  not  entirely  the  kind  of  poems  the  readers  of 
O.  Henry  would  expect  from  him.  Most  of  them,  how 
ever,  were  found  in  his  own  indubitable  manuscript  or 
over  his  own  signature. 


Introduction 

There  is  extant  a  mass  of  O.  Henry  correspondence  that 
has  not  been  included  in  this  collection.  During  the 
better  part  of  a  decade  in  New  York  City  he  wrote 
constantly  to  editors,  and  in  many  instances  intimately. 
This  is  very  important  material,  and  permission  has 
been  secured  to  use  nearly  all  of  it  in  a  biographical 
volume  that  will  be  issued  within  the  next  two  or  three 
years.  The  letters  in  this  volume  have  been  chosen  as 
an  "exhibit,"  as  early  specimens  of  his  writing  and  for 
their  particularly  characteristic  turns  of  thought  and 
phrase.  The  collection  is  not  "complete"  in  any  his 
torical  sense. 

1912.  H.  P.  S. 


. 


THE  DREAM 

[This  was  the  last  work  of  O.  Henry.  The  Cosmopolitan 
Magazine  had  ordered  it  from  him  and,  after  his  death,  the 
unfinished  manuscript  was  found  in  his  room,  on  his  dusty 
desk.  The  story  as  it  here  appears  was  published  in  the 
Cosmopolitan  for  September,  1910.] 

tRRAY  dreamed  a  dream, 
th  psychology  and  science  grope  when  they  would 
in  to  us  the  strange  adventures  of  our  immaterial 
selves  when  wandering  in  the  realm  of  "Death's  twin 
brother,  Sleep. '}    This  ctory.  will  not  attempt  to  be  illu 
minative;  it  is  no  more  than  a  record  of  Murray's  dream- — 
One  of  the  most  puzzling  phases  of  that  strange  waking 

sleep  is  that  dreams  which  seem  to  cover  months  or  even 

^ 

years  may  take  place  within  a  few  seconds  or  niinutesj 

MttKay  was  waiting  in  his  cell  in  the  ward  of  the  con 
demned.  An  electric  arc  light  in  the  ceiling  of  the  corridor 
shone  brightly  upon  his  table.  On  a  sheet  of  white  paper 
an  ant  crawled  wildly  here  and  there  as  Murray  blocked 
its  way  with  an  envelope.  The  electrocution  was  set  for 
eight  o"  clock  in  the  evening.  Murray  smiled  at  the  antics 

of  the  wisest  of  insects. ,  -V- 

There  were  seven  other  condemned  men  in  the  chamber. 
Since  he  had  been  there  Murray  had  seen  three  taken  out 
to  theu:  fate;  one  gone  mad  and  fighting  like  a  wolf  caught 

3 


Rolling  Stones 

in  a  trap;  one,  no  less  mad,  offering  up  a  sanctimonious 
lip-service  to  Heaven;  the  third,  a  weakling,  collapsed 
and  strapped  to  a  board.  He  wondered  with  what  credit 
to  himself  his  own  heart,  foot,  and  face  would  meet  his 
punishment ;  for  this  was  his  evening.  He  thought  it  must 
_be  nearly  eight  o'clock. 

Opposite  his  own  in  the  TWO  ro\v"s  of  cells  was  the  cage 
of  Bohjf acio,  the  Sicilian  slaver  of  his  betrothed  and  of  two 
officers  who  came  to  arrest  him.  With  him  Murray  had 
played  checkers  many  a  long  hour,  each  calling  his  move 
to  his  unseen  opponent  across  the  corridor. 

Bonifacio's  great  booming  voice  with  its  indestructible 
singing  quality  called  out: 

"Eh,  Meestro  Murray;  how  you  feel  —  all-a  right  — 

"All  right,  Bonifacic,"  said  Murray  steadily,  as  he 
allowed  the  ant  to  crawl  upon  the  envelope  and  then 
dumped  it  gently  on  the  stone  floor. 

"Dat's  good-a,  Meestro  Murray.      Men  like  us,   we 

must-a  die  like-a  men.    My  time  come  nex'-a  week.    All-a 

right.     Remember,  Meestro  Murray,  I  beat-a  you  dat 

las'  game  of  de  check.     Maybe  w^  play  again  some-a 

time.     I  don'-a  know.     Maybe  we  have  to  call-a  de  move 

damn-a  loud  to  play  de  check  where  dey  ^oin'  send  us." 

/^/Bonifacio's  hardened  philosophy,  followed  closely  by  his 

If  deafening,  musical  peal  of  laughter,  warmed -rather  than 

chilled   Murray's   numbed   heart.     Yet,    Bonifacio   had 

\iinti!  next  week  to  live. 

The  cell-dwellers  heard  the  familiar,  loud  click  of  the 


The  Dream  5 

steel  bolts  as  the  door  at  the  end  of  the  corridor  was 
opened.  Three  men  came  to  Murray's  cell  and  un 
locked  it.  Two  were  prison  guards;  the  other  was  "Len" 
—  no;  that  was  in  the  old  days;  now(theReverenQLeonard 
Winston,  a  friend  and  neighbor  from  their  barefoot  days._ 

"I  got  them  to  let  me  take  the  prison  chaplain's  place," 
he  said,  as  he  gave  Murray's  hand  one  short,  strong  grip. 
In  his  left  hand  he  held  a  small  Bible,  with  his  forefinger 
marking  a  page. 

Murray  smiled  slightly  and  arranged  two  or  three  books 
and  some  penholders  orderly  on  his  small  table.  He 
would  have  spoken,  but  no  appropriate  words  seemed  to 

j^esent^themselves  to  hU  minH. 

~  The  prisoners  had  christened  this  cellhouse,  eighty  feet 
long, \twenty-eight  feet  wide,  Limbo  Lane.     The  regular 
guard  of  Limbo  Lane,  an  immense,  rough,  kindly  man, 
drew  a  pint  bottle  of  whiskey  from  his  pocket  and  offered  \ 
it  to  Murray,  saying: 

"It's  the  regular  thing,  you  know.  All  has  it  who  feel 
like  they  need  a.  bracer.  Xo  danger  of  it  becoming  a 
habit  with  'em,  ^pu  see." 

Murray  drank  deep  into  the  bottle. 

"That's  the  boy!"  said  the  guard.  "Just  a  little  nerve 
tonic,  and  everything  goes  smooth  as  silk." 

They  stepped  into  the  corridor,  and  each  one  of  the 
doomed  seven  knew.   Limbo  Lane  is  a  world  on  the  outside 
of  the  world;  but  it  had  learned,  when  deprived  of  one  or 
more  of  the  five  senses,  to  make  another  sense  supply  the   " 
deficiency.     Each  one  knew  that  it  was  nearly  eight,  and 


6  Rolling  Stones 

that  Murray  was  to  go  to  the  chair  at  eight!:  There  is  also 
in  rhe  many  Limbo  Lanes  an  aristocracy  of  crime.  The 
man  Vho  kills  in  the  open,  who  beats  his  enemy  or  pursuer 
down,  flushed  by  the  primitive  emotions  and  the  ardor  of 
combat,  holds  in  contempt  the  human  rat,  the  spider,  and 
the  snake.x  j 

So,  of  the  seven  condemned  only  three  called  their 
farewells  to  Murray  as  he  marched  down  the  corridor  be 
tween  the  twp  guards  —  Bonifacio,  Marvin,  who  had 
killed  a  guard  while  trying  to  escape  from  the  prison,  and 
Bassett,  the  trainXrobber,  who  was  driven  to  it  because  the 
express-messengerWouldn't  raise  his  hands  when  ordered 
to  do  so.  The  remaining  four  smoldered,  silent,  in  their 
cells,  no  doubt  feeling,  their  social  ostracism  in  Limbo  Lane 
society  more  keenly  man  they  did  the  memory  of  their 
less  picturesque  offenceKagainst  the  law. 

Murray  wondered  at  his  own  calmness  and  nearly  indif> 
ference.  In  the  execution  room  were  about  twenty  nien,. 
a  congregation  made  up  of  prison  officers,  newspaper  re 
porters,  and  lookers-on/who  had  succeeded 


Here,  in  the  very  middle  of  a  sentence,  the  hand  of 
Death  interrupted  the  telling  of  O.  Henry's  last  story.  /Be~ 
bad  pkumed  to  make  this  story  different  from  his  otters, 
the  beginning  of  a^new  series  in  a  style  Jie  had  not  pre 
viously  attempted.  "I  want  to  show  the  public,"  he 
said,  "that  I  can  write  something  new  —  new  for  me,  I 
mean  —  a  story  without  slang,  a  straightforward  dra 
matic  plot  treated  in  a  way  that  will  come  nearer  my  idea 


the  Dream  7 

of  real  story-writing.  '|  Before  starting  to  write  the  present 
story,  he  outlined  briefly  how  he  intended  to  develop  it: 
-Murray,  the  criminal  accused  and  convicted  of  the  brutal 
murder  of  his  sweetheart  —  a  murder  prompted  by  jealous 
rage  —  at  first  faces  the  death  penalty,  calm,  and,  to  all 
outward  appearances,  indifferent  to  his  fate.  f  As  he  near* 
the  electric  chair  he  ie  overcome  by  a  revulsion  of  feeling. 
He  »  left  dazed,  stupefied,  stunned.  The  entire  scene  in 
the  death-chamber  —  the  witnesses,  the  spectators,  the 
preparations  for  execution  —  became  unreal  to  him. 
The  thought  flasheJ  through  his  brain  that  a  terrible  mis 
take  is  being  made.  Why  ie  he  being  strapped  to  the  chair? 
What  haj  he  done?  What  crime  had  he  committed?  In 
the  few  moments  while  the  straps  arc  being  adjusted  a 
vision  comes  to  him.  He  dream!  n  dream.  He  sees  a 
little  country  cottage,  bright,  sun-lit,  nestling  in  a  bower 
of  flowers.  A  woman  is  there,  and  a  little  child.  He  speaks 
with  them  and  finds  that  they  are  his  wife,  his  child  — 
and  the  cottage  their  home.  So,  after  all,  it  is  a  mistake. 
Some  one  had  frightfully,  irretrievably  blundered.  The 
accusation,  the  trial,  the  conviction,  the  sentence  to  death 
in  the  electric  chair  —  all  a  dream.  He  takes  his  wife  in 
his  arms  and  kisseai  the  child.  Yes,  here  is  happiness.  It 
was  a  dream.  Then  —  at  a  sign  from  the  prison  warden 
ithe  fatal  current  ia  turned  on. 
\  Murray  had  dreamed  the  wrong  dream. 


A  RULER  OF  MEN 

[Written  at  the  prime  of  his  popularity  and  power,  this 
characteristic  and  amusing  story  was  published  in  Everybody's 
Magazine  in  August,  1906.] 

I  WALKED  the  streets  of  the  City  of  Insolence,  thirsting 
for  the  sight  of  a  stranger  face.  For  the  City  is  a  desert 
of  familiar  types  as  thick  and  alike  as  the  grains  in  a  sand 
storm  ;  and  you  grow  to  hate  them  as  you  do  a  friend  who 
is  always  by  you,  or  one  of  your  own  kin. 

And  my  desire  was  granted,  for  I  saw,  near  a  corner  of 
Broadway  and  Twenty-ninth  Street,  a  little  flaxen-haired 
man  with  a  face  like  a  scaly-bark  hickory-nut,  selling  to  a 
fast-gathering  crowd  a  tool  that  omnigeneously  pro 
claimed  itself  a  can-opener,  a  screw-driver,  a  button-hook, 
a  nail-file,  a  shoe-horn,  a  watch-guard,  a  potato-peeler, 
and  an  ornament  to  any  gentleman's  key-ring. 

And  then  a  stall-fed  cop  shoved  himself  through  the 
congregation  of  customers.  The  vender,  plainly  used 
to  having  his  seasons  of  trade  thus  abruptly  curtailed, 
closed  his  satchel  and  slipped  like  a  weasel  through  the 
opposite  segment  of  the  circle.  The  crowd  scurried  aim 
lessly  away  like  ants  from  a  disturbed  crumb.  The  cop, 
suddenly  becoming  oblivious  of  the  earth  and  its  inhabi 
tants,  stood  still,  swelling  his  bulk  and  putting  his  club 

8 


A  Ruler  of  Men  9 

through  an  intricate  drill  of  twirls.  I  hurried  after  Kan 
sas  Bill  Bowers,  and  caught  him  by  an  arm. 

Without  his  looking  at  me  or  slowing  his  pace,  I  found 
a  five-dollar  bill  crumpled  neatly  into  my  hand. 

"I  wouldn't  have  thought,  Kansas  Bill,"  I  said,  "that 
you'd  hold  an  old  friend  that  cheap." 

Then  he  turned  his  head,  and  the  hickory-nut  cracked 
into  a  wide  smile. 

"Give  back  the  money,"  said  he,  "or  I'll  have  the  cop 
after  you  for  false  pretenses.  I  thought  you  was  the 
cop." 

"I  want  to  talk  to  you,  Bill,"  I  said.  "When  did  you 
leave  Oklahoma?  Where  is  Reddy  McGill  now?  Why 
are  you  selling  those  impossible  contraptions  on  the 
street?  How  did  your  Big  Horn  gold-mine  pan  out? 
How  did  you  get  so  badly  sunburned?  What  will  you 
drink?' 

"A  year  ago,"  answered  Kansas  Bill  systematically. 
"Putting  up  windmills  in  Arizona.  For  pin  money  to 
buy  etceteras  with.  Salted.  Been  down  in  the  tropics. 
Beer." 

We  foregathered  in  a  propitious  place  and  became  Eli 
jahs,  while  a  waiter  of  dark  plumage  played  the  raven  to 
perfection.  Reminiscence  needs  must  be  had  before  I 
could  steer  Bill  into  his  epic  mood. 

"Yes,"  said  he,  "I  mind  the  time  Timoteo's  rope  broke 
on  that  cow's  horns  while  the  calf  was  chasing  you.  You 
and  that  cow!  I'd  never  forget  it." 

"The  tropics,"  said  I,  "are  a  broad  territory.     What 


10  Rolling  Stones 

part  of  Cancer  of  Capricorn  have  you  been  honoring  with 
a  visit?" 

"Down  along  China  or  Peru  —  or  maybe  the  Argentine 
Confederacy,"  said  Kansas  Bill.  "Anyway  'twas  among 
a  great  race  of  people,  off-colored  but  progressive.  I  was 
there  three  months." 

"No  doubt  you  are  glad  to  be  back  among  the  truly 
great  race,"  I  surmised.  "  Especially  among  New  Yorkers, 
the  most  progressive  and  independent  citizens  of  any 
country  in  the  world,"  I  continued,  with  the  fatuity  of  the 
provincial  who  has  eaten  the  Broadway  lotus. 

"Do  you  want  to  start  an  argument?"  asked  Bill. 

"Can  there  be  one?"  I  answered. 

"Has  an  Irishman  humor,  do  you  think?"  asked  he. 

"I  have  an  hour  or  two  to  spare,"  said  I,  looking  at  the 
cafe  clock. 

"Not  that  the  Americans  aren't  a  great  commercial 
nation,"  conceded  Bill.  "But  the  fault  laid  with  the 
people  who  wrote  lies  for  fiction." 

"What  was  this  Irishman's  name?"  I  asked. 

"Was  that  last  beer  cold  enough?"  said  he. 

"I  see  there  is  talk  of  further  outbreaks  among  the 
Russian  peasants,  "  I  remarked. 

"His  name  was  Barney  O'Connor,"  said  Bill. 

Thus,  because  of  our  ancient  prescience  of  each  other's 
trail  of  thought,  we  travelled  ambiguously  to  the  point 
where  Kansas  Bill's  story  began: 

"I  met  O'Connor  in  a  boarding-house  on  the  West 
Side.  He  invited  me  to  his  hall-room  to  have  a  drink, 


A  Ruler  of  Men  11 

and  we  became  like  a  dog  and  a  cat  that  had  been  raised 
together.  There  he  sat,  a  tall,  fine,  handsome  man,  with 
his  feet  against  one  wall  and  his  back  against  the  other., 
looking  over  a  map.  On  the  bed  and  sticking  three 
feet  out  of  it  was  a  beautiful  gold  sword  with  tassels  on  it 
and  rhinestones  in  the  handle. 

"' What's  this?'  says  I  (for  by  that  time  we  were  well 
acquainted).  'The  annual  parade  in  vilification  of  the 
ex-snakes  of  Ireland?  And  what's  the  line  of  march? 
Up  Broadway  to  Forty-second;  thence  east  to  McCarty's 
cafe;  thence ' 

:"Sit  down  on  the  wash-stand,'  says  O'Connor,  'and 
listen.  And  cast  no  perversions  on  the  sword.  'Twas  me 
father's  in  old  Munster.  And  this  map,  Bowers,  is  no 
diagram  of  a  holiday  procession.  If  ye  look  again  ye'll 
see  that  it's  the  continent  known  as  South  America,  com 
prising  fourteen  green,  blue,  red,  and  yellow  countries, 
all  crying  out  from  time  to  time  to  be  liberated  from  the 
yoke  of  the  oppressor.' 

"I  know,'  says  I  to  O'Connor.  'The  idea  is  a  literary 
one.  The  ten-cent  magazine  stole  it  from  "Ridpath's 
History  of  the  World  from  the  Sand-stone  Period  to  the 
Equator."  You'll  find  it  in  every  one  of  'em.  It's  a 
continued  story  of  a  soldier  of  fortune,  generally  named 
O'Keefe,  who  gets  to  be  dictator  while  the  Spanish- 
American  populace  cries  "Cospetto!"  and  other  Italian 
maledictions.  I  misdoubt  if  it's  ever  been  done. 
You're  not  thinking  of  trying  that,  are  you,  Barney?' 
I  asks. 


1£  Rolling  Stones 

"'Bowers/  says  he,  'you're  a  man  of  education  and 
courage.' 

"'How  can  I  deny  it?'  says  I.  'Education  runs  in  my 
family;  and  I  have  acquired  courage  by  a  hard  struggle 
with  life.' 

"The  O'Connors,'  says  he,  'are  a  warlike  race.  There 
is  me  father's  sword;  and  here  is  the  map.  A  life  of  inac 
tion  is  not  for  me.  The  O'Connors  were  born  to  rule. 
'Tis  a  ruler  of  men  I  must  be.' 

"'Barney,'  I  says  to  him,  'why  don't  you  get  on  the 
force  and  settle  down  to  a  quiet  life  of  carnage  and  cor 
ruption  instead  of  roaming  off  to  foreign  parts?  In  what 
better  way  can  you  indulge  your  desire  to  subdue  and  mal 
treat  the  oppressed?' 

'"Look  again  at  the  map,'  says  he,  'at  the  country 
I  have  the  point  of  me  knife  on.  'Tis  that  one  I 
have  selected  to  aid  and  overthrow  with  me  father's 
sword.' 

:"I  see,'  says  I.  'It's  the  green  one;  and  that  does 
credit  to  your  patriotism,  and  it's  the  smallest  one;  and 
that  does  credit  to  your  judgment.' 

"'Do  ye  accuse  me  of  cowardice?'  says  Barney,  turning 
pink. 

'"No  man,'  says  I,  'who  attacks  and  confiscates  a 
country  single-handed  could  be  called  a  coward.  The 
worst  you  can  be  charged  with  is  plagiarism  or  imitation. 
If  Anthony  Hope  and  Roosevelt  let  you  get  away  with  it, 
nobody  else  will  have  any  right  to  kick.' 

'"I'm   not   joking,'   says   O'Connor.     'And   I've   got 


A  Ruler  of  Men  13 

$1,500  cash  to  work  the  scheme  with.  I've  taken  a  liking 
to  you.  Do  you  want  it,  or  not?' 

"'I'm  not  working/  I  told  him;  'but  how  is  it  to  be? 
Do  I  eat  during  the  fomentation  of  the  insurrection,  or 
am  I  only  to  be  Secretary  of  War  after  the  country  is  con 
quered?  Is  it  to  be  a  pay  envelope  or  only  a  portfolio?  * 

" '  I'll  pay  all  expenses,'  says  O'Connor.  '  I  want  a  man 
I  can  trust.  If  we  succeed  you  may  pick  out  any  appoint 
ment  you  want  in  the  gift  of  the  government.' 

"'All  right,  then,'  says  I.  'You  can  get  me  a  bunch  of 
draying  contracts  and  then  a  quick-action  consignment  to 
a  seat  on  the  Supreme  Court  bench  so  I  won't  be  in  line 
for  the  presidency.  The  kind  of  cannon  they  chasten 
their  presidents  with  in  that  country  hurt  too  much. 
You  can  consider  me  on  the  pay-roll.'  *** 

"Two  weeks  afterward  O'Connor  and  me  took  a  steamer 
for  the  small,  green,  doomed  country.  We  were  three 
weeks  on  the  trip.  O'Connor  said  he  had  his  plans  all 
figured  out  in  advance;  but  being  the  commanding  general, 
it  consorted  with  his  dignity  to  keep  the  details  concealed 
from  his  army  and  cabinet,  commonly  known  as  William 
T.  Bowers.  Three  dollars  a  day  was  the  price  for  which 
I  joined  the  cause  of  liberating  an  undiscovered  country 
from  the  ills  that  threatened  or  sustained  it.  Every 
Saturday  night  on  the  steamer  I  stood  in  line  at  parade 
rest,  and  O'Connor  handed  over  the  twenty-one  dollars. 

"The  town  we  landed  at  was  named  Guayaquerita,  so 
they  told  me.  'Not  for  me,'  says  I.  'It'll  be  little  old 
Hilldale  or  Tompkinsville  or  Cherry  Tree  Corners  when 


14  Rolling  Stones 

I  speak  of  it.  It's  a  clear  case  where  Spelling  Reform 
ought  to  butt  in  and  disenvowel  it.' 

"But  the  town  looked  fine  from  the  bay  when  we  sailed 
in.  It  was  white,  with  green  ruching,  and  lace  ruffles 
on  the  skirt  when  the  surf  slashed  up  on  the  sand.  It 
Hooked  as  tropical  and  dolce  far  ultra  as  the  pictures  of 
Lake  Ronkonkoma  in  the  brochure  of  the  passenger  de 
partment  of  the  Long  Island  Railroad. 

"We  went  through  the  quarantine  and  custom-house 
indignities;  and  then  O'Connor  leads  me  to  a  'dobe  house 
on  a  street  called  'The  Avenue  of  the  Dolorous  Butter 
flies  of  the  Individual  and  Collective  Saints.'  Ten  feet 
wide  it  was,  and  knee-deep  in  alfalfa  and  cigar  stumps. 

"'Hooligan  Alley,'  says  I,  rechristening  it. 

""Twill  be  our  headquarters,'  says  O'Connor.  'My 
agent  here,  Don  Fernando  Pacheco,  secured  it  for  us.' 

"So  in  that  house  O'Connor  and  me  established  the 
revolutionary  centre.  In  the  front  room  we  had  osten 
sible  things  such  as  fruit,  a  guitar,  and  a  table  with  a 
conch  shell  on  it.  In  the  back  room  O'Connor  had  his 
desk  and  a  large  looking-glass  and  his  sword  hid  in  a  roll 
of  straw  matting.  We  slept  on  hammocks  that  we  hung 
to  hooks  in  the  wall;  and  took  our  meals  at  the  Hotel 
Ingles,  a  beanery  run  on  the  American  plan  by  a  German 
proprietor  with  Chinese  cooking  served  a  la  Kansas  City 
lunch  counter. 

"It  seems  that  O'Connor  really  did  have  some  sort  of 
system  planned  out  beforehand.  He  wrote  plenty  of 
letters;  and  every  day  or  two  some  native  gent  would  stroll 


A  Ruler  of  Men  15 

round  to  headquarters  and  be  shut  up  in  the  back  room 
for  half  an  hour  with  O'Connor  and  the  interpreter.  I 
noticed  that  when  they  went  in  they  were  always  smoking 
eight-inch  cigars  and  at  peace  with  the  world;  but  when 
they  came  out  they  would  be  folding  up  a  ten-  or  twenty- 
dollar  bill  and  cursing  the  government  horribly. 

"One  evening  after  we  had  been  in  Guaya  —  in  this 
town  of  Smellville-by-the-Sea  —  about  a  month,  and  me 
and  O'Connor  were  sitting  outside  the  door  helping  along 
old  tempus  f ugit  with  rum  and  ice  and  limes,  I  says  to  him : 

"If  you'll  excuse  a  patriot  that  don't  exactly  know 
what  he's  patronizing,  for  the  question  —  what  is  your 
scheme  for  subjugating  this  country?  Do  you  intend  to 
plunge  it  into  bloodshed,  or  do  you  mean  to  buy  its  votes 
peacefully  and  honorably  at  the  polls?' 

'"  Bowers,'  says  he,  'ye're  a  fine  little  man  and  I  intend 
to  make  great  use  of  ye  after  the  conflict.  But  ye  do  not 
understand  statecraft.  Already  by  now  we  have  a  net 
work  of  strategy  clutching  with  invisible  fingers  at  the 
throat  of  the  tyrant  Calderas.  We  have  agents  at  work 
in  every  town  in  the  republic.  The  Liberal  party  is 
bound  to  win.  On  our  secret  lists  we  have  the  names  of 
enough  sympathizers  to  crush  the  administration  forces 
at  a  single  blow.' 

!"A  straw  vote,'  says  I,  'only  shows  which  way  the  hot 
air  blows.' 

"Who  has  accomplished  this?'  goes  on  O'Connor.  *I 
have.  I  have  directed  everything.  The  time  was  ripe 
when  we  came,  so  my  agents  inform  me.  The  people  are 


16  Rolling  Stones 

groaning  under  burdens  of  taxes  and  levies.  Who  will  be 
their  natural  leader  when  they  rise?  Could  it  be  any  one 
but  meself  ?  'Twas  only  yesterday  that  Zaldas,  our  rep 
resentative  in  the  province  of  Durasnas,  tells  me  that  the 
people,  in  secret,  already  call  me  "El  Library  Door," 
which  is  the  Spanish  manner  of  saying  "The  Liberator.'" 

"Was  Zaldas  that  maroon-colored  old  Aztec  with  a 
paper  collar  on  and  unbleached  domestic  shoes?'  I  asked. 

:"He  was,'  says  O'Connor. 

"'I  saw  him  tucking  a  yellow-back  into  his  vest  pocket 
as  he  came  out,'  says  I.  'It  may  be,'  says  I,  'that  they 
call  you  a  library  door,  but  they  treat  you  more  like  the 
•  side  door  of  a  bank.  But  let  us  hope  for  the  worst.' 

:<<It  has  cost  money,  of  course,'  says  O'Connor;  *but 
we'll  have  the  country  in  our  hands  inside  of  a  month.' 

"  In  the  evenings  we  walked  about  in  the  plaza  and 
listened  to  the  band  playing  and  mingled  with  the  popu- 
,  lace  at  its  distressing  and  obnoxious  pleasures.  There 
were  thirteen  vehicles  belonging  to  the  upper  classes, 
mostly  rockaways  and  old-style  barouches,  such  as  the 
mayor  rides  in  at  the  unveiling  of  the  new  poorhouse  at 
Milledgeville,  Alabama.  Round  and  round  the  desic 
cated  fountain  in  the  middle  of  the  plaza  they  drove,  and 
lifted  their  high  silk  hats  to  their  friends.  The  common 
people  walked  around  in  barefooted  bunches,  puffing  sto 
gies  that  a  Pittsburg  millionaire  wouldn't  have  chewed  for 
a  dry  smoke  on  Ladies'  Day  at  his  club.  And  the  grandest 
figure  in  the  whole  turnout  was  Barney  O'Connor.  Six 
foot  two  he  stood  in  his  Fifth  Avenue  clothes,  with  his 


A  Ruler  of  Men  17 

eagle  eye  and  his  black  moustache  that  tickled  his  ears. 
He  was  a  born  dictator  and  czar  and  hero  and  harrier  of 
the  human  race.  It  looked  to  me  that  all  eyes  were  turned 
upon  O'Connor,  and  that  every  woman  there  loved  him, 
and  every  man  feared  him.  Once  or  twice  I  looked  at 
him  and  thought  of  funnier  things  that  had  happened 
than  his  winning  out  in  his  game;  and  I  began  to  feel  like 
a  Hidalgo  de  Officio  de  Grafto  de  South  America  myself. 
And  then  I  would  come  down  again  to  solid  bottom  and 
let  my  imagination  gloat,  as  usual,  upon  the  twenty-one 
American  dollars  due  me  on  Saturday  night. 

"'Take  note,'  says  O'Connor  to  me  as  thus  we  walked, 
'of  the  mass  of  the  people.  Observe  their  oppressed  and 
melancholy  air.  Can  ye  not  see  that  they  are  ripe  for 
revolt?  Do  ye  not  perceive  that  they  are  disaffected?'  • 

"'I  do  not,'  says  I.  'Nor  disinfected  either.  I'm 
beginning  to  understand  these  people.  When  they  look 
unhappy  they're  enjoying  themselves.  When  they  feel 
unhappy  they  go  to  sleep.  They're  not  the  kind  of  people 
to  take  an  interest  in  revolutions.' 

"'They'll  flock  to  our  standard,'  says  O'Connor. 
'Three  thousand  men  in  this  town  alone  will  spring  to 
arms  when  the  signal  is  given.  I  am  assured  of  that. 
But  everything  is  in  secret.  There  is  no  chance  for  us  to 
fail.' 

"On  Hooligan  Alley,  as  I  prefer  to  call  the  street  our 
headquarters  was  on,  there  was  a  row  of  flat  'dobe  houses 
with  red  tile  roofs,  some  straw  shacks  full  of  Indians  and 
dogs,  and  one  two-story  wooden  house  with  balconies  a 


* 

18  Rolling  Stones 

little  farther  down.  That  was  where  General  Tumbalo, 
the  comandante  and  commander  of  the  military  forces, 
lived.  Right  across  the  street  was  a  private  residence 
built  like  a  combination  bake-oven  and  folding-bed.  One 
day,  O'Connor  and  me  were  passing  it,  single  file,  on  the 
<flange  they  called  a  sidewalk,  when  out  of  the  window  flies 
a  big  red  rose.  O'Connor,  who  is  ahead,  picks  it  up, 
presses  it  to  his  fifth  rib,  and  bows  to  the  ground.  By 
Carrambos !  that  nuln  certainly  had  the  Irish  drama  chaun- 
ceyized.  I  looked  ardund  expecting  to  see  the  little  boy 
and  girl  in  white  sateen  ready  to  jump  on  his  shoulder 
while  he  jolted  their  spinal  columns  and  ribs  together 
through  a  breakdown,  and  sang:  'Sleep,  Little  One, 
Sleep/ 

"As  I  passed  the  window  I  glanced  inside  and  caught 
a  glimpse  of  a  white  dress  and  a  pair  of  big,  flashing  black 
eyes  and  gleaming  teeth  under  a  dark  lace  mantilla. 

"When  we  got  back  to  our  house  O'Connor  began  to 
walk  up  and  down  the  floor  and  twist  his  moustaches. 

"'Did  ye  see  her  eyes,  Bowers?'  he  askes  me. 

"'I  did/  says  I,  'and  I  can  see  more  than  that.  It's 
all  coming  out  according  to  the  story-books.  I  knew 
there  was  something  missing.  'Twas  the  love  interest. 
What  is  it  that  comes  in  Chapter  VII  to  cheer  the  gallant 
Irish  adventurer?  Why,  Love,  of  course  —  Love  that 
makes  the  hat  go  around.  At  last  we  have  the  eyes  of 
midnight  hue  and  the  rose  flung  from  the  barred  window. 
Now,  what  comes  next?  The  underground  passage  — 
the  intercepted  letter  —  the  traitor  in  camp  —  the  hero 


A  Ruler  of  Men  19 

thrown  into  a  dungeon  —  the  mysterious  message  from 
the  senorita  —  then  the  outburst  —  the  fighting  on  the 
plaza  —  the ' 

"' Don't  be  a  fool,'  says  O'Connor,  interrupting.  'But 
that's  the  only  woman  in  the  world  for  me,  Bowers.  The 
O'Connors  are  as  quick  to  love  as  they  are  to  fight.  I 
shall  wear  that  rose  over  me  heart  when  I  lead  me  men  into 
action.  For  a  good  battle  to  be  fought  there  must  be 
some  woman  to  give  it  power.' 

:" Every  time,'  I  agreed,  'if  you  want  to  have  a  good 
lively  scrap.  There's  only  one  thing  bothering  me.  In 
the  novels  the  light-haired  friend  of  the  hero  always  gets 
killed.  Think  'em  all  over  that  you've  read,  and  you'll 
see  that  I'm  right.  I  think  I'll  step  down  to  the  Botica 
Espanola  and  lay  in  a  bottle  of  walnut  stain  before  war  is 
declared.' 

;"How  will  I  find  out  her  name?"  says  O'Connor,  lay 
ing  his  chin  in  his  hand. 

"Why  don't  you  go  across  the  street  and  ask  her?' 
says  I. 

"Will  ye  never  regard  anything  in  life  seriously?'  says 
O'Connor,  looking  down  at  me  like  a  schoolmaster. 

;"  Maybe  she  meant  the  rose  for  me,'  I  said,  whistling 
the  Spanish  Fandango. 

"For  the  first  time  since  I'd  known  O'Connor,  he 
laughed.  He  got  up  and  roared  and  clapped  his  knees, 
and  leaned  against  the  wall  till  the  tiles  on  the  roof  clat 
tered  to  the  noise  of  his  lungs.  He  went  into  the  back 
room  and  looked  at  himself  in  the  glass  and  began  and 


20  Rolling  Stones 

laughed  all  over  from  the  beginning  again.  Then  he 
looked  at  me  and  repeated  himself.  That's  why  I  asked 
you  if  you  thought  an  Irishman  had  any  humor.  He'd 
been  doing  farce  comedy  from  the  day  I  saw  him  without 
knowing  it;  and  the  first  time  he  had  an  idea  advanced  to 
him  with  any  intelligence  in  it  he  acted  like  two  twelfths  of 
the  sextet  in  a  'Floradora'  road  company. 

"The  next  afternoon  he  comes  in  with  a  triumphant 
smile  and  begins  to  pull  something  like  ticker  tape  out  of 
his  pocket. 

" '  Great ! '  says  I.  *  This  is  something  like  home.  How 
is  Amalgamated  Copper  to-day?' 

"'I've  got  her  name,'  says  O'Connor,  and  he  reads  off 
something  like  this:  'Dona  Isabel  Antonia  Inez  Lolita 
Carreras  y  Buencaminos  y  Monteleon.  She  lives  with  her 
mother,'  explains  O'Connor.  'Her  father  was  killed  in 
the  last  revolution.  She  is  sure  to  be  in  sympathy  with 
our  cause.' 

"And  sure  enough  the  next  day  she  flung  a  little  bunch 
of  roses  clear  across  the  street  into  our  door.  O'Connor 
dived  for  it  and  found  a  piece  of  paper  curled  around  a 
stem  with  a  line  in  Spanish  on  it.  He  dragged  the  inter 
preter  out  of  his  corner  and  got  him  busy.  The  interpreter 
scratched  his  head,  and  gave  us  as  a  translation  three 
best  bets :  *  Fortune  had  got  a  face  like  the  man  fighting '; 
'Fortune  looks  like  a  brave  man';  and  'Fortune  favors 
the  brave.'  We  put  our  money  on  the  last  one. 

'"Do  ye  see?"  says  O'Connor.  'She  intends  to  en 
courage  me  sword  to  save  her  country.' 


O.  Henry  at  the  age  of  two 


A  Ruler  of  Men  21 

"'It  looks  to  me  like  an  invitation  to  supper/  says  I. 

"So  every  day  this  senorita  sits  behind  the  barred 
windows  and  exhausts  a  conservatory  or  two,  one  posy  at 
a  time.  And  O'Connor  walks  like  a  Dominecker  rooster 
and  swells  his  chest  and  swears  to  me  he  will  win  her  by 
feats  of  arms  and  big  deeds  on  the  gory  field  of  battle. 

"  By  and  by  the  revolution  began  to  get  ripe.  One  day 
O'Connor  takes  me  into  the  back  room  and  tells  me  all. 

:" Bowers/  says  he,  'at  twelve  o'clock  one  week  from 
to-day  the  struggle  will  take  place.  It  has  pleased  ye  to 
find  amusement  and  diversion  in  this  project  because  ye 
have  not  sense  enough  to  perceive  that  it  is  easily  accom 
plished  by  a  man  of  courage,  intelligence,  and  historical 
superiority,  such  as  meself.  The  whole  world  over/ 
says  he,  'the  O'Connors  have  ruled  men,  women,  and 
nations.  To  subdue  a  small  and  indifferent  country  like 
this  is  a  trifle.  Ye  see  what  little,  barefooted  manikins 
the  men  of  it  are.  I  could  lick  four  of  'em  single-handed/ 

;" No  doubt/  says  I.  'But  could  you  lick  six?  And 
suppose  they  hurled  an  army  of  seventeen  against  you?' 

;<  *  Listen/  says  O'Connor, '  to  what  will  occur.  At  noon 
next  Tuesday  25,000  patriots  will  rise  up  in  the  towns  of 
the  republic.  The  government  will  be  absolutely  unpre 
pared.  The  public  buildings  will  be  taken,  the  regular 
army  made  prisoners,  and  the  new  administration  set  up. 
In  the  capital  it  will  not  be  so  easy  on  account  of  most  of 
the  army  being  stationed  there.  They  will  occupy  the 
president's  palace  and  the  strongly  fortified  government 
buildings  and  stand  a  siege.  But  on  the  very  day  of  the 


22  Rolling  Stones 

outbreak  a  body  of  our  troops  will  begin  a  march  to  the 
capital  from  every  town  as  soon  as  the  local  victory  has 
been  won.  The  thing  is  so  well  planned  that  it  is  an  im 
possibility  for  us  to  fail.  I  meself  will  lead  the  troops 
from  here.  The  new  president  will  be  Sefior  Espadas,  now 
Minister  of  Finance  in  the  present  cabinet.' 

"'What  do  you  get?'  I  asked. 

""Twill  be  strange,'  said  O'Connor  smiling,  'if  I  don't 
have  all  the  jobs  handed  to  me  on  a  silver  salver  to  pick 
what  I  choose.  I've  been  the  brains  of  the  scheme,  and 
when  the  fighting  opens  I  guess  I  won't  be  in  the  rear  rank. 
Who  managed  it  so  our  troops  could  get  arms  smuggled 
into  this  country?  Didn't  I  arrange  it  with  a  New  York 
firm  before  I  left  there?  Our  financial  agents  inform  me 
that  20,000  stands  of  Winchester  rules  have  been  delivered 
a  month  ago  at  a  secret  place  up  coast  and  distributed 
among  the  towns.  I  tell  you,  Bqlwers,  the  game  is  already 
won.' 

"Well,  that  kind  of  talk  kind  of  shook  my  disbelief  in 
the  infallibility  of  the  serious  Irish  gentleman  soldier  of 
fortune.  It  certainly  seemed  that  the  patriotic  grafters 
had  gone  about  the  thing  in  a  business  way.  I  looked  upon 
O'Connor  with  more  respect,  and  began  to  figure  on  what 
kind  of  uniform  I  might  wear  as  Secretary  of  War. 

"  Tuesday,  the  day  set  for  the  revolution,  came  around 
according  to  schedule.  O'Connor  said  that  a  signal  had 
been  agreed  upon  for  the  uprising.  There  was  an  old 
cannon  on  the  beach  near  the  national  warehouse.  That 
had  been  secretly  loaded  and  promptly  at  twelve  o'clock 


A  Ruler  of  Men  23 

was  to  be  fired  off.  Immediately  the  revolutionists  would 
seize  their  concealed  arms,  attack  the  comandante's  troops 
in  the  cuartel,  and  capture  the  custom-house  and  all 
government  property  and  supplies. 

"I  was  nervous  all  the  morning.  And  about  eleven 
o'clock  O'Connor  became  infused  with  the  excitement  and 
martial  spirit  of  murder.  He  geared  his  father's  sword 
around  him,  and  walked  up  and  down  in  the  back  room 
like  a  lion  in  the  Zoo  suffering  from  corns.  I  smoked  a 
couple  of  dozen  cigars,  and  decided  on  yellow  stripes  down 
the  trouser  legs  of  my  uniform. 

"At  half -past  eleven  O'Connor  asks  me  to  take  a  short 
stroll  through  the  streets  to  see  if  I  could  notice  any  signs 
of  the  uprising.  I  was  back  in  fifteen  minutes. 

"'Did  you  hear  anything?'  he  asks. 

" '  I  did/  says  I.  '  At  first  I  thought  it  was  drums.  But 
It  wasn't;  it  was  snoring.  Everybody  in  town's  asleep.' 

"O'Connor  tears  out  his  watch. 

"'Fools! '  says  he.  'They've  set  the  time  right  at  the 
siesta  hour  when  everybody  takes  a  nap.  But  the  cannon 
will  wake  'em  up.  Everything  will  be  all  right,  depend 
upon  it.' 

"  Just  at  twelve  o'clock  we  heard  the  sound  of  a  cannon 
—  BOOM!  —  shaking  the  whole  town. 

"O'Connor  loosens  his  sword  in  its  scabbard  and  jumps 
for  the  door.  I  went  as  far  as  the  door  and  stood  in  it. 

"People  were  sticking  their  heads  out  of  doors  and 
windows.  But  there  was  one  grand  sight  that  made  the 
landscape  look  tame. 


24  Rolling  Stones 

"General  Tumbalo,  the  comandante,  was  rolling  down 
the  steps  of  his  residential  dugout,  waving  a  five-foot 
sabre  in  his  hand.  He  wore  his  cocked  and  plumed  hat 
and  his  dress-parade  coat  covered  with  gold  braid  and 
buttons.  Sky-blue  pajamas,  one  rubber  boot,  and  one 
red-plush  slipper  completed  his  make-up. 

"  The  general  had  heard  the  cannon,  and  he  puffed  down 
the  sidewalk  toward  the  soldiers'  barracks  as  fast  as  his 
rudely  awakened  two  hundred  pounds  could  travel. 

"O'Connor  sees  him  and  lets  out  a  battle-cry  and  draws 
his  father's  sword  and  rushes  across  the  street  and  tackles 
the  enemy. 

"Eight  there  in  the  street  he  and  the  general  gave  an 
exhibition  of  blacksmithing  and  butchery.  Sparks  flew 
from  their  blades,  the  general  roared,  and  O'Connor  gave 
the  slogan  of  his  race  and  proclivities. 

"Then  the  general's  sabre  broke  in  two;  and  he  took  to 
his  ginger-colored  heels  crying  out,  'Policios/  at  every 
jump.  O'Connor  chased  him  a  block,  imbued  with  the 
sentiment  of  manslaughter,  and  slicing  buttons  off  the 
general's  coat  tails  with  the  paternal  weapon.  At  the 
corner  five  barefooted  policemen  in  cotton  undershirts 
and  straw  hats  climbed  over  O'Connor  and  subjugated 
him  according  to  the  municipal  statutes. 

"They  brought  him  past  the  late  revolutionary  head 
quarters  on  the  way  to  jail.  I  stood  in  the  door.  A  police 
man  had  him  by  each  hand  and  foot,  and  they  dragged 
him  on  his  back  through  the  grass  like  a  turtle.  Twice 
they  stopped,  and  the  odd  policeman  took  another's 


A  Ruler  of  Men  25 

place  while  he  rolled  a  cigarette.  The  great  soldier  of 
fortune  turned  his  head  and  looked  at  me  as  they  passed. 
I  blushed,  and  lit  another  cigar.  The  procession  passed 
on,  and  at  ten  minutes  past  twelve  everybody  had  gone 
back  to  sleep  again. 

"In  the  afternoon  the  interpreter  came  around  and 
smiled  as  he  laid  his  hand  on  the  big  red  jar  we  usually  kept 
ice-water  in. 

"'The  ice-man  didn't  call  to-day/  says  I.  'What's 
the  matter  with  everything,  Sancho?' 

"'Ah,  yes/  says  the  liver-colored  linguist.  'They  just 
tell  me  in  the  town.  Verree  bad  act  that  Senor  O'Connor 
make  fight  with  General  Tumbalo.  Yes.  General 
Tumbalo  great  soldier  and  big  mans.' 

'"What  '11  they  do  to  Mr.  O'Connor?'  I  asks. 

E"I  talk  little  while  presently  with  the  Juez  de  la  Paz 
—  what  you  call  Justice- with-the-peace,'  says  Sancho. 
'He  tell  me  it  verree  bad  crime  that  one  Senor  Americano 
try  kill  General  Tumbalo.  He  say  they  keep  Senor 
O'Connor  in  jail  six  months;  then  have  trial  and  shoot  him 
with  guns.  Verree  sorree.' 

:"How  about  this  revolution  that  was  to  be  pulled  off?' 
I  asks. 

:"Oh,'  says  this  Sancho,  'I  think  too  hot  weather  for 
revolution.  Revolution  better  in  winter-time.  Maybe 
so  next  winter.  Quien  sabe  ? ' 

"But  the  cannon  went  off,'  says  I.  'The  signal  was 
given.' 

" ' That  big  sound? '  says  Sancho,  grinning.    ' The  boiler 


26  Rolling  Stones 

in  ice  factory  he  blow  up  —  BOOM !  Wake  everybody 
up  from  siesta.  Verree  sorree.  No  ice.  Mucho  hot  day.' 

"About  sunset  I  went  over  to  the  jail,  and  they  let  me 
talk  to  O'Connor  through  the  bars. 

"  *  What's  the  news,  Bowers? '  says  he.  'Have  we  taken 
the  town?  I've  been  expecting  a  rescue  party  all  the 
afternoon.  I  haven't  heard  any  firing.  Has  any  word 
been  received  from  the  capital?' 

"'Take  it  easy,  Barney,'  says  I.  'I  think  there's  been 
a  change  of  plans.  There's  something  more  important 
to  talk  about.  Have  you  any  money? ' 

"'I  have  not,'  says  O'Connor.  'The  last  dollar  went 
to  pay  our  hotel  bill  yesterday.  Did  our  troops  capture 
the  custom-house?  There  ought  be  plenty  of  govern 
ment  money  there.' 

"'Segregate  your  mind  from  battles,'  says  I.  'I've 
been  making  inquiries.  You're  to  be  shot  six  months 
from  date  for  assault  and  battery.  I'm  expecting  to 
receive  fifty  years  at  hard  labor  for  vagrancy.  All  they 
furnish  you  while  you're  a  prisoner  is  water.  You  depend 
on  your  friends  for  food.  I'll  see  what  I  can  do.' 

"I  went  away  and  found  a  silver  Chile  dollar  in  an  old 
vest  of  O'Connor's.  I  took  him  some  fried  fish  and  rice 
for  his  supper.  In  the  morning  I  went  down  to  a  lagoon 
and  had  a  drink  of  water,  and  then  went  back  to  the  jail. 
O'Connor  had  a  porterhouse  steak  look  in  his  eye. 

" '  Barney,'  says  I,  '  I've  found  a  pond  full  of  the  finest 
kind  of  water.  It's  the  grandest,  sweetest,  purest  water 
in  the  world.  Say  the  word  and  I'll  go  fetch  you  a  bucket 


A  Ruler  of  Men  ^ 

of  it  and  you  can  throw  this  vile  government  stuff  out  the 
window.  I'll  do  anything  I  can  for  a  friend.' 

"'Has  it  come  to  this?'  says  O'Connor,  raging  up  and 
down  his  cell.  'Am  I  to  be  starved  to  death  and  then 
shot?  I'll  make  those  traitors  feel  the  weight  of  an 
O'Connor's  hand  when  I  get  out  of  this.'  And  then  he 
comes  to  the  bars  and  speaks  softer.  'Has  nothing  been 
heard  from  Dona  Isabel?'  he  asks.  'Though  every  one 
else  in  the  world  fail,'  says  he,  'I  trust  those  eyes  of  hers. 
She  will  find  a  way  to  effect  my  release.  Do  ye  think  ye 
could  communicate  with  her?  One  word  from  her  — 
even  a  rose  would  make  me  sorrow  light.  But  don't  let 
her  know  except  with  the  utmost  delicacy,  Bowers. 
These  high-bred  Castilians  are  sensitive  and  proud.' 

"'Well  said,  Barney,'  says  I.  'You've  given  me  an 
idea.  I'll  report  later.  Something's  got  to  be  pulled  off 
quick,  or  we'll  both  starve.' 

"I  walked  out  and  down  to  Hooligan  Alley,  and  then 
on  the  other  side  of  the  street.  As  I  went  past  the  window 
of  Dona  Isabel  Antonia  Concha  Regalia,  out  flies  the  rose 
as  usual  and  hits  me  on  the  ear. 

"The  door  was  open,  and  I  took  off  my  hat  and  walked 
in.  It  wasn't  very  light  inside,  but  there  she  sat  in  a 
rocking-chair  by  the  window  smoking  a  black  cheroot. 
And  when  I  got  closer  I  saw  that  she  was  about  thirty- 
nine,  and  had  never  seen  a  straight  front  in  her  life.  I  sat 
down  on  the  arm  of  her  chair,  and  took  the  cheroot  out 
of  her  mouth  and  stole  a  kiss. 

"'Hullo,  Izzy,'  I  says.     'Excuse  my  unconventionality, 


2<3  Rolling  Stones 

but  I  feel  like  I  have  known  you  for  a  month.     Whose 
Izzy  is  oo?' 

"The  lady  ducked  her  head  under  her  mantilla,  and 
drew  in  a  long  breath.  I  thought  she  was  going  to  scream, 
but  with  all  that  intake  of  air  she  only  came  out  with: 
'Me  likee  Americanos.' 

"As  soon  as  she  said  that,  I  knew  that  O'Connor  and 
me  would  be  doing  things  with  a  knife  and  fork  before  the 
day  was  over.  I  drew  a  chair  beside  her,  and  inside  of 
half  an  hour  we  were  engaged.  Then  I  took  my  hat  and 
said  I  must  go  out  for  a  while. 

"You  come  back?'  says  Izzy,  in  alarm. 

'"Me  go  bring  preacher,'  says  I.  'Come  back  twenty 
minutes.  We  marry  now.  How  you  likee?' 

"'Marry  to-day?'  says  Izzy.     'Good!' 

"I  went  down  on  the  beach  to  the  United  States  con 
sul's  shack.  He  was  a  grizzly  man,  eighty-two  pounds, 
smoked  glasses,  five  foot  eleven,  pickled.  He  was  playing 
chess  with  an  india-rubber  man  in  white  clothes. 

'"Excuse  me  for  interrupting,'  says  I,  'but  can  you  tell 
me  how  a  man  could  get  married  quick? ' 

"The  consul  gets  up  and  fingers  in  a  pigeonhole. 

"'I  believe  I  had  a  license  to  perform  the  ceremony 
myself,  a  year  or  two  ago,'  he  said.  '  I'll  look,  and ' 

"  I  caught  hold  of  his  arm. 

" ' Don't  look  it  up,'  says  I.  '  Marriage  is  a  lottery  any 
way.  I'm  willing  to  take  the  risk  about  the  license  if  you 
are.' 

"The  consul  went  back  to  Hooligan  Alley  with  me. 


O.  Henry  in  Austin,  Texas,  1896 


Emigrants'  Camp 

(An  early  Drawing  by  0.  Henry) 


A  Ruler  of  Men  29 

Izzy  called  her  ma  to  come  in,  but  the  old  lady  was  picking 
a  chicken  in  the  patio  and  begged  to  be  excused.  So  we 
Stood  up  and  the  consul  performed  the  ceremony. 

"That  evening  Mrs.  Bowers  cooked  a  great  supper  of 
stewed  goat,  tamales,  baked  bananas,  fricasseed  red  pep 
pers  and  coffee.  Afterward  I  sat  in  the  rocking-chair  by 
the  front  window,  and  she  sat  on  the  floor  plunking  at  a 
guitar  and  happy,  as  she  should  be,  as  Mrs.  William  T.  B. 

"All  at  once  I  sprang  up  in  a  hurry.  I'd  forgotten  all 
about  O'Connor.  I  asked  Izzy  to  fix  up  a  lot  of  truck  for 
him  to  eat. 

"'That  big,  oogly  man/  said  Izzy.  'But  all  right  — 
he  your  friend.' 

"I  pulled  a  rose  out  of  a  bunch  in  a  jar,  and  took  the 
grub-basket  around  to  the  jail.  O'Connor  ate  like  a  wolf. 
Then  he  wiped  his  face  with  a  banana  peel  and  said: 
'Have  you  heard  nothing  from  Dona  Isabel  yet?' 

"'Hist!'  says  I,  slipping  the  rose  between  the  bars. 
'She  sends  you  this.  She  bids  you  take  courage.  At 
nightfall  two  masked  men  brought  it  to  the  ruined  chateau 
in  the  orange  grove.  How  did  you  like  that  goat  hash, 
Barney?' 

"O'Connor  pressed  the  rose  to  his  lips. 
"This  is  more  to  me  than  all  the  food  in  the  world,' 
says  he.     'But  the  supper  was  fine.     Where  did  you  raise 
it?' 

"'I've  negotiated  a  stand-off  at  a  delicatessen  hut 
downtown,'  I  tells  him.  'Rest  easy.  If  there's  anything 
to  be  done  I'll  do  it/ 


30  Rolling  Stones 

"  So  things  went  along  that  way  for  some  weeks.  Izzy 
was  a  great  cook;  and  if  she  had  had  a  little  more  poise  of 
character  and  smoked  a  little  better  brand  of  tobacco  we 
might  have  drifted  into  some  sense  of  responsibility  for  the 
honor  I  had  conferred  on  her.  But  as  time  went  on  I  began 
to  hunger  for  the  sight  of  a  real  lady  standing  before  me  in 
a  street-car.  All  I  was  staying  in  that  land  of  bilk  and 
money  for  was  because  I  couldn't  get  away,  and  I  thought 
it  no  more  than  decent  to  stay  and  see  O'Connor  shot. 

"One  day  our  old  interpreter  drops  around  and  after 
smoking  an  hour  says  that  the  judge  of  the  peace  sent  him 
to  request  me  to  call  on  him.  I  went  to  his  office  in  a 
lemon  grove  on  a  hill  at  the  edge  of  the  town;  and  there  I 
had  a  surprise.  I  expected  to  see  one  of  the  usual  cin 
namon-colored  natives  in  congress  gaiters  and  one  of 
Pizzaro's  cast-off  hats.  What  I  saw  was  an  elegant  gentle 
man  of  a  slightly  claybank  complexion  sitting  in  an  uphol 
stered  leather  chair,  sipping  a  highball  and  reading  Mrs. 
Humphry  Ward.  I  had  smuggled  into  my  brain  a  few 
words  of  Spanish  by  the  help  of  Izzy,  and  I  began  to  re 
mark  in  a  rich  Andalusian  brogue: 

"'Buenas  dias,  senor.     Yo  tengo  —  yo  tengo ' 

"'Oh,  sit  down,  Mr.  Bowers,'  says  he.  'I  spent  eight 
years  in  your  country  in  colleges  and  law  schools.  Let  me 
mix  you  a  highball.  Lemon  peel,  or  not?' 

"Thus  we  got  along.  In  about  half  an  hour  I  was  be 
ginning  to  tell  him  about  the  scandal  in  our  family  when 
Aunt  Elvira  ran  away  with  a  Cumberland  Presbyterian 
preacher.  Then  he  says  to  me: 


A  Ruler  of  Men  31 

"'I  sent  for  you,  Mr.  Bowers,  to  let  you  know  that  you 
can  have  your  friend  Mr.  O'Connor  now.  Of  course  we 
had  to  make  a  show  of  punishing  him  on  account  of  his 
attack  on  General  Tumbalo.  It  is  arranged  that  he  shall 
be  released  to-morrow  night.  You  and  he  will  be  con 
veyed  on  board  the  fruit  steamer  Voyager,  bound  for  New 
York,  which  lies  in  the  harbor.  Your  passage  will  be 
arranged  for.' 

"'One  moment,  judge,'  says  I;  'that  revolution ' 

"The  judge  lays  back  in  his  chair  and  howls. 

"'Why,'  says  he  presently,  'that  was  all  a  little  joke 
fixed  up  by  the  boys  around  the  court-room,  and  one  or 
two  of  our  cut-ups,  and  a  few  clerks  in  the  stores.  The 
town  is  bursting  its  sides  with  laughing.  The  boys 
made  themselves  up  to  be  conspirators,  and  they  —  what 
you  call  it?  —  stick  Senor  O'Connor  for  his  money.  It  is 
very  funny.' 

"'It  was,' says  I.  'I  saw  the  joke  all  along.  I'll  take 
another  highball,  if  your  Honor  don't  mind.' 

"The  next  evening  just  at  dark  a  couple  of  soldiers 
brought  O'Connor  down  to  the  beach,  where  I  was  waiting 
under  a  cocoanut-tree. 

"'Hist!'  says  I  in  his  ear:  'Dona  Isabel  has  arranged 
our  escape.  Not  a  word!' 

"They  rowed  us  in  a  boat  out  to  a  little  steamer 
that  smelled  of  table  d'hote  salad  oil  and  bone  phos 
phate. 

"The  great,  mellow,  tropical  moon  was  rising  as  we 
steamed  away.  O'Connor  leaned  on  the  taffrail  or  rear 


32  Rolling  Stones 

balcony  of  the  ship  and  gazed  silently  at  Guaya at 

Buncoville-on-the-Beach. 

He  had  the  red  rose  in  his  hand. 

"  *  She  will  wait,'  I  heard  him  say.  '  Eyes  like  hers  never 
deceive.  But  I  shall  see  her  again.  Traitors  cannot  keep 
an  O'Connor  down  forever.' 

"'You  talk  like  a  sequel,'  says  I.  'But  in  Volume  II 
please  omit  the  light-haired  friend  who  totes  the  grub  to 
the  hero  in  his  dungeon  cell.' 

"And  thus  reminiscing,  we  came  back  to  New  York." 

There  was  a  little  silence  broken  only  by  the  familiar 
roar  of  the  streets  after  Kansas  Bill  Bowers  ceased  talking. 

"Did  O'Connor  ever  go  back?"  I  asked. 

"He  attained  his  heart's  desire,"  said  Bill.  "Can  you 
walk  two  blocks?  I'll  show  you." 

He  led  me  eastward  and  down  a  flight  of  stairs  that  was 
covered  by  a  curious-shaped  glowing,  pagoda-like  struc 
ture.  Signs  and  figures  on  the  tiled  walls  and  supporting 
columns  attested  that  we  were  in  the  Grand  Central  sta 
tion  of  the  subway.  Hundreds  of  people  were  on  the 
midway  platform. 

An  uptown  express  dashed  up  and  halted.  It  was 
crowded.  There  was  a  rush  for  it  by  a  still  larger  crowd. 

Towering  above  every  one  there  a  magnificent,  broad- 
shouldered,  athletic  man  leaped  into  the  centre  of  the 
struggle.  Men  and  women  he  seized  in  either  hand  and 
hurled  them  like  manikins  toward  the  open  gates  of  the 
train. 


A  Ruler  of  Men  33 

Now  and  then  some  passenger  with  a  shred  of  soul  and 
self-respect  left  to  him  turned  to  offer  remonstrance;  but 
the  blue  uniform  on  the  towering  figure,  the  fierce  and 
conquering  glare  of  his  eye  and  the  ready  impact  of  his 
ham-like  hands  glued  together  the  lips  that  would  have 
spoken^  complaint. 

When  the  train  was  full,  then  he  exhibited  to  all  who 
might  observe  and  admire  his  irresistible  genius  as  a  ruler 
of  men.  With  his  knees,  with  his  elbows,  with  his  shoul 
ders,  with  his  resistless  feet  he  shoved,  crushed,  slammed, 
heaved,  kicked,  flung,  pounded  the  overplus  of  passengers 
aboard.  Then  with  the  sounds  of  its  wheels  drowned  by 
the  moans,  shrieks,  prayers,  and  curses  of  its  unfortunate 
crew,  the  express  dashed  away. 

"That's  him.  Ain't  he  a  wonder?"  said  Kansas  Bill 
admiringly.  "That  tropical  country  wasn't  the  place  for 
him.  I  wish  the  distinguished  traveller,  writer,  war  cor 
respondent,  and  playwright,  Richmond  Hobson  Davis, 
could  see  him  now.  O'Connor  ought  to  be  dramatized." 


THE   ATAVISM   OF  JOHN   TOM   LITTLE   BEAR 

[O.  Henry  thought  this  the  best  of  the  Jeff  Peters  stories,  all  the 
rest  of  which  are  included  in  "The  Gentle  Grafter,"  except 
" Cupid  a  la  Carte "  in  the  " Heart  of  the  West."  "The  Atavism 
of  John  Tom  Little  Bear"  appeared  in  Everybody's  Magazine  for 
July,  1903.] 

I  SAW  a  light  in  Jeff  Peters's  room  over  the  Red  Front 
Drug  Store.  I  hastened  toward  it,  for  I  had  not  knowi* 
that  Jeff  was  in  town.  He  is  a  man  of  the  Hadji  breed,  of 
a  hundred  occupations,  with  a  story  to  tell  (when  he  will) 
of  each  one. 

I  found  Jeff  repacking  his  grip  for  a  run  down  to  Florida 
to  look  at  an  orange  grove  for  which  he  had  traded,  a 
month  before,  his  mining  claim  on  the  Yukon.  He  kicked 
me  a  chair,  with  the  same  old  humorous,  profound  smile 
on  his  seasoned  countenance.  It  had  been  eight  months 
since  we  had  met,  but  his  greeting  was  such  as  men  pass 
from  day  to  day.  Time  is  Jeff's  servant,  and  the  conti 
nent  is  a  big  lot  across  which  he  cuts  to  his  many  roads. 

For  a  while  we  skirmished  along  the  edges  of  unprofit 
able  talk  which  culminated  in  that  unquiet  problem  of  the 
Philippines. 

"All  them  tropical  races,"  said  Jeff,  "could  be  run  out 
better  with  their  own  jockeys  up.  The  tropical  man  knows 
what  he  wants.  All  he  wants  is  a  season  ticket  to  the 

34 


John  Tom  Little  Bear  35 

cock-fights  and  a  pair  of  Western  Union  climbers  to  go  up 
the  bread-fruit  tree.  The  Anglo-Saxon  man  wants  him 
to  learn  to  conjugate  and  wear  suspenders.  He'll  be  hap 
piest  in  his  own  way." 

I  was  shocked. 

"Education,  man,"  I  said,  "is  the  watchword.  In 
time  they  will  rise  to  our  standard  of  civilization.  Look  at 
what  education  has  done  for  the  Indian." 

"O-ho!"  sang  Jeff,  lighting  his  pipe  (which  was  a  good 
sign).  "  Yes,  the  Indian !  I'm  looking.  I  hasten  to  con 
template  the  redman  as  a  standard  bearer  of  progress. 
He's  the  same  as  the  other  brown  boys.  You  can't  make 
an  Anglo-Saxon  of  him.  Did  I  ever  tell  you  about  the 
time  my  friend  John  Tom  Little  Bear  bit  off  the  right  ear 
of  the  arts  of  culture  and  education  and  spun  the  teetotum 
back  round  to  where  it  was  when  Columbus  was  a  little 
boy?  I  did  not? 

"John  Tom  Little  Bear  was  an  educated  Cherokee 
Indian  and  an  old  friend  of  mine  when  I  was  in  the  Terri 
tories.  He  was  a  graduate  of  one  of  them  Eastern  foot 
ball  colleges  that  have  been  so  successful  in  teaching  the 
Indian  to  use  the  gridiron  instead  of  burning  his  victims 
at  the  stake.  As  an  Anglo-Saxon,  John  Tom  was  copper- 
colored  in  spots.  As  an  Indian,  he  was  one  of  the  whitest 
men  I  ever  knew.  As  a  Cherokee,  he  was  a  gentleman  on 
the  first  ballot.  As  a  ward  of  the  nation,  he  was  mighty 
hard  to  carry  at  the  primaries. 

"John  Tom  and  me  got  together  and  began  to  make 
medicine  —  how  to  get  up  some  lawful,  genteel  swindle 


36  Rolling  Stones 

which  we  might  work  in  a  quiet  way  so  as  not  to  excite  the 
stupidity  of  the  police  or  the  cupidity  of  the  larger  cor 
porations.  We  had  close  upon  $500  between  us,  and  we 
pined  to  make  it  grow,  as  all  respectable  capitalists  do. 

"So  we  figured  out  a  proposition  which  seems  to  be  as 
honorable  as  a  gold  mine  prospectus  and  as  profitable  as  a 
church  raffle.  And  inside  of  thirty  days  you  find  us 
swarming  into  Kansas  with  a  pair  of  fluent  horses  and  a 
red  camping  wagon  on  the  European  plan.  John  Tom  is 
Chief  Wish-Heap-Dough,  the  famous  Indian  medicine  man 
and  Samaritan  Sachem  of  the  Seven  Tribes.  Mr.  Peters  is 
business  manager  and  half  owner.  We  needed  a  third 
man,  so  we  looked  around  and  found  J.  Conyngham 
Binkly  leaning  against  the  want  column  of  a  newspaper. 
This  Binkly  has  a  disease  for  Shakespearian  roles,  and  an 
hallucination  about  a  200  nights'  run  on  the  New  York 
stage.  But  he  confesses  that  he  never  could  earn  the 
butter  to  spread  on  his  William  S.  roles,  so  he  is  willing  to 
drop  to  the  ordinary  baker's  kind,  and  be  satisfied  with  a 
200-mile  run  behind  the  medicine  ponies.  Besides 
Richard  III,  he  could  do  twenty-seven  coon  songs  and 
banjo  specialties,  and  was  willing  to  cook,  and  curry  the 
horses.  We  carried  a  fine  line  of  excuses  for  taking 
money.  One  was  a  magic  soap  for  removing  grease  spots 
and  quarters  from  clothes.  One  was  a  Sum-wah-tah,  the 
great  Indian  Remedy  made  from  a  prairie  herb  revealed 
by  the  Great  Spirit  in  a  dream  to  his  favorite  medicine 
men,  the  great  chiefs  McGarrity  and  Silberstein,  bottlers, 
Chicago.  And  the  other  was  a  frivolous  system  of  pick- 


John  Tom  Little  Bear  37 

pocketing  the  Kansasters  that  had  the  department  stores 
reduced  to  a  decimal  fraction.  Look  ye!  A  pair  of  silk 
garters,  a  dream  book,  one  dozen  clothespins,  a  gold  tooth, 
and  *  When  Knighthood  Was  in  Flower'  all  wrapped  up  in 
a  genuine  Japanese  silkarina  handkerchief  and  handed  to 
the  handsome  lady  by  Mr.  Peters  for  the  trivial  sum  of 
fifty  cents,  while  Professor  Binkly  entertains  us  in  a  three- 
minute  round  with  the  banjo. 

"  'Twas  an  eminent  graft  we  had.  We  ravaged  peace 
fully  through  the  State,  determined  to  remove  all  doubt 
as  to  why  'twas  called  bleeding  Kansas.  John  Tom  Little 
Bear,  in  full  Indian  chief's  costume,  drew  crowds  away 
from  the  parchesi  sociables  and  government  ownership 
conversaziones.  While  at  the  football  college  in  the  East 
he  had  acquired  quantities  of  rhetoric  and  the  art  of  calis 
thenics  and  sophistry  in  his  classes,  and  when  he  stood  up 
in  the  red  wagon  and  explained  to  the  farmers,  eloquent, 
about  chilblains  and  hypersesthesia  of  the  cranium,  Jeff 
couldn't  hand  out  the  Indian  Remedy  fast  enough  for  'em. 

"One  night  we  was  camped  on  the  edge  of  a  little  town 
out  west  of  Salina.  We  always  camped  near  a  stream,  and 
put  up  a  little  tent.  Sometimes  we  sold  out  of  the  Rem 
edy  unexpected,  and  then  Chief  Wish-Heap-Dough  would 
have  a  dream  in  which  the  Manitou  commanded  him  to  fill 
up  a  few  bottles  of  Sum-wah-tah  at  the  most  convenient 
place.  'Twas  about  ten  o'clock,  and  we'd  just  got  in  from 
a  street  performance.  I  was  in  the  tent  with  the  lantern, 
figuring  up  the  day's  profits.  John  Tom  hadn't  taken  off 
his  Indian  make-up,  and  was  sitting  by  the  campfire 


38  Rolling  Stones 

minding  a  fine  sirloin  steak  in  the  pan  for  the  Professor 
till  he  finished  his  hair-raising  scene  with  the  trained 
horse*. 

"All  at  once  out  of  dark  bushes  comes  a  pop  like  a  fire 
cracker,  and  John  Tom  gives  a  grunt  and  digs  out  of  his 
bosom  a  little  bullet  that  has  dented  itself  against  his 
collar-bone.  John  Tom  makes  a  dive  in  the  direction  of 
the  fireworks,  and  comes  back  dragging  by  the  collar  a 
kid  about  nine  or  ten  years  young,  in  a  velveteen  suit,  with 
a  little  nickel-mounted  rifle  in  his  hand  about  as  big  as  a 
fountain-pen. 

"'Here,  you  pappoose,'  says  John  Tom,  'what  are  you 
gunning  for  with  that  howitzer?  You  might  hit  somebody 
in  the  eye.  Come  out,  Jeff,  and  mind  the  steak.  Don't 
let  it  burn,  while  I  investigate  this  demon  with  the  pea 
shooter.' 

"'Cowardly  redskin,'  says  the  kid  like  he  was  quoting 
from  a  favorite  author.  'Dare  to  burn  me  at  the  stake 
and  the  paleface  will  sweep  you  from  the  prairies  like  — 
like  everything.  Now,  you  lemme  go,  or  I'll  tell  mamma.' 

"John  Tom  plants  the  kid  on  a  camp-stool,  and  sits 
down  by  him.  '  Now,  tell  the  big  chief,'  he  says, '  why  you 
try  to  shoot  pellets  into  your  Uncle  John's  system. 
Didn't  you  know  it  was  loaded?' 

"'Are  you  a  Indian?'  asks  the  kid,  looking  up  cute  as 
you  please  at  John  Tom's  buckskin  and  eagle  feathers.  'I 
am,'  says  John  Tom.  'Well,  then,  that's  why,'  answers 
the  boy,  swinging  his  feet.  I  nearly  let  the  steak  burn 
watching  the  nerve  of  that  youngster. 


John  Tom  Little  Bear  39 

"'O-ho!'  says  John  Tom,  'I  see.  You're  the  Boy 
Avenger.  And  you've  sworn  to  rid  the  continent  of  the 
savage  redman.  Is  that  about  the  way  of  it,  son? ' 

"The  kid  halfway  nodded  his  head.      And  then  he 
looked  glum.     'Twas  indecent  to  wring  his  secret  from  his 
bosom  before  a  single  brave  had  fallen  before  his  parlor-  * 
rifle. 

"'Now,  tell  us  where  your  wigwam  is,  pappoose,'  says 
John  Tom  —  *  where  you  live?  Your  mamma  will  be 
worrying  about  you  being  out  so  late.  Tell  me,  and  I'll 
take  you  home.' 

"The  kid  grins.  'I  guess  not,'  he  says.  'I  live  thou 
sands  and  thousands  of  miles  over  there.'  He  gyrated  his 
hand  toward  the  horizon.  'I  come  on  the  train,'  he  says, 
'  by  myself.  I  got  off  here  because  the  conductor  said  my 
ticket  had  ex-pirated.'  He  looks  at  John  Tom  with  sud 
den  suspicion.  'I  bet  you  ain't  a  Indian,' he  says.  'You 
don't  talk  like  a  Indian.  You  look  like  one,  but  all  a 
Indian  can  say  is  "heap  good"  and  "paleface  die."  Say, 
I  bet  you  are  one  of  them  make-believe  Indians  that  sell 
medicine  on  the  streets.  I  saw  one  once  in  Quincy.' 

"'You  never  mind,'  says  John  Tom,  'whether  I'm  a 
cigar-sign  or  a  Tammany  cartoon.  The  question  before 
the  council  is  what's  to  be  done  with  you.  You've  run 
away  from  home.  You've  been  reading  Howells.  You've 
disgraced  the  profession  of  boy  avengers  by  trying  to 
shoot  a  tame  Indian,  and  never  saying:  "Die,  dog  of 
a  redskin!  You  have  crossed  the  path  of  the  Boy  Aven 
ger  nineteen  times  too  often."  What  do  you  mean  by  it? ' 


40  Rolling  Stones 

"The  kid  thought  for  a  minute.  'I  guess  I  made  a  mis 
take,'  he  says.  '  I  ought  to  have  gone  farther  west.  They 
find  'em  wild  out  there  in  the  canons.'  He  holds  out  his 
hand  to  John  Tom,  the  little  rascal.  'Please  excuse  me, 
sir,'  says  he,  'for  shooting  at  you.  I  hope  it  didn't  hurt 
you.  But  you  ought  to  be  more  careful.  When  a  scout 
sees  a  Indian  in  his  war-dress,  his  rifle  must  speak.'  Little 
Bear  give  a  big  laugh  with  a  whoop  at  the  end  of  it,  and 
swings  the  kid  ten  feet  high  and  sets  him  on  his  shoulder, 
and  the  runaway  fingers  the  fringe  and  the  eagle  feathers 
and  is  full  of  the  joy  the  white  man  knows  when  he  dangles 
his  heels  against  an  inferior  race.  It  is  plain  that  Little 
Bear  and  that  kid  are  chums  from  that  on.  The  little 
renegade  has  already  smoked  the  pipe  of  peace  with  the 
savage;  and  you  can  see  in  his  eye  that  he  is  figuring  on  a 
tomahawk  and  a  pair  of  moccasins,  children's  size. 

"We  have  supper  in  the  tent.  The  youngster  looks 
upon  me  and  the  Professor  as  ordinary  braves,  only  in 
tended  as  a  background  to  the  camp  scene.  When  he 
is  seated  on  a  box  of  Sum-wah-tah,  with  the  edge  of  the 
table  sawing  his  neck,  and  his  mouth  full  of  beefsteak, 
Little  Bear  calls  for  his  name.  'Roy,'  says  the  kid,  with 
a  sirloiny  sound  to  it.  But  when  the  rest  of  it  and  his 
post-office  address  is  referred  to,  he  shakes  his  head.  *I 
guess  not,'  he  says.  'You'll  send  me  back.  I  want  to 
stay  with  you.  I  like  this  camping  out.  At  home,  we 
fellows  had  a  camp  in  our  back  yard.  They  called  me 
Roy,  the  Red  Wolf.  I  guess  that'll  do  for  a  name. 
Gimme  another  piece  of  beefsteak,  please.' 


John  Tom  Little  Bear  41 

"We  had  to  keep  that  kid.  We  knew  there  was  a  hul 
labaloo  about  him  somewheres,  and  that  Mamma,  and 
Uncle  Harry,  and  Aunt  Jane,  and  the  Chief  of  Police 
were  hot  after  finding  his  trail,  but  not  another  word  would 
he  tell  us.  In  two  days  he  was  the  mascot  of  the  Big 
Medicine  outfit,  and  all  of  us  had  a  sneaking  hope  that  his 
owners  wouldn't  turn  up.  When  the  red  wagon  was  doing 
business  he  was  in  it,  and  passed  up  the  bottles  to  Mr. 
Peters  as  proud  and  satisfied  as  a  prince  that's  abjured  a 
two-hundred-dollar  crown  for  a  million-dollar  parvenuess. 
Once  John  Tom  asked  him  something  about  his  papa.  'I 
ain't  got  any  papa,'  he  says.  'He  runned  away  and  left 
us.  He  made  my  mamma  cry.  Aunt  Lucy  says  he's  a 
shape.'  'A  what?'  somebody  asks  him.  'A  shape,'  says 
the  kid;  'some  kind  of  a  shape  —  lemme  see  —  oh,  yes,  a 
feendenuman  shape.  I  don't  know  what  it  means.' 
John  Tom  was  for  putting  our  brand  on  him,  and  dressing 
him  up  like  a  little  chief,  with  wampum  and  beads,  but  I 
vetoes  it.  'Somebody's  lost  that  kid,  is  my  view  of  it, 
and  they  may  want  him.  You  let  me  try  him  with  a  few 
stratagems,  and  see  if  I  can't  get  a  look  at  his  visiting- 
card.' 

"So  that  night  I  goes  up  to  Mr.  Roy  Blank  by  the 
camp-fire,  and  looks  at  him  contemptuous  and  scornful. 
' Snickenwitzel ! '  says  I,  like  the  word  made  me  sick; 
'Snickenwitzel!  Bah!  Before  I'd  be  named  Snicken 
witzel  ! ' 

"'What's  the  matter  with  you,  Jeff?'  says  the  kid, 
opening  his  eyes  wide. 


42  Rolling  Stones 

"  *  Snickenwitzel ! '  I  repeats,  and  I  spat  the  word  out. 
*  I  saw  a  man  to-day  from  your  town,  and  he  told  me  your 
name.  I'm  not  surprised  you  was  ashamed  to  tell  it. 
Snickenwitzel !  Whew ! ' 

"'Ah,  here,  now/  says  the  boy,  indignant  and 
wriggling  all  over,  'what's  the  matter  with  you?  That 
ain't  my  name.  It's  Conyers.  What's  the  matter  with 
you?' 

" '  And  that's  not  the  worst  of  it,'  I  went  on  quick,  keep 
ing  him  hot  and  not  giving  him  time  to  think.  'We 
thought  you  was  from  a  nice,  well-to-do  family.  Here's 
Mr.  Little  Bear,  a  chief  of  the  Cherokees,  entitled  to  wear 
nine  otter  tails  on  his  Sunday  blanket,  and  Professor 
Binkly,  who  plays  Shakespeare  and  the  banjo,  and  me, 
that's  got  hundreds  of  dollars  in  that  black  tin  box  in  the 
wagon,  and  we've  got  to  be  careful  about  the  company  we 
keep.  That  man  tells  me  your  folks  live  'way  down  in 
little  old  Hencoop  Alley,  where  there  are  no  sidewalks, 
and  the  goats  eat  off  the  table  with  you.' 

"That  kid  was  almost  crying  now.  "Taint  so,'  he 
splutters.  'He  —  he  don't  know  what  he's  talking 
about.  We  live  on  Poplar  Av'noo.  I  don't  'sociate  with 
goats.  What's  the  matter  with  you? ' 

'"Poplar  Avenue,'  says  I,  sarcastic.  'Poplar  Avenue! 
That's  a  street  to  live  on!  It  only  runs  two  blocks  and 
then  falls  off  a  bluff.  You  can  throw  a  keg  of  nails  the 
whole  length  of  it.  Don't  talk  to  me  about  Poplar 
Avenue.' 

'"It's  —  it's  miles  long,'  says  the  kid.     'Our  number's 


John  Tom  Little  Bear  43 

and  there's  lots  of  houses  after  that.  What's  the 
matter  with  —  aw,  you  make  me  tired,  Jeff.' 

"'Well,  well,  now,'  says  I.  *I  guess  that  man  made  a 
mistake.  Maybe  it  was  some  other  boy  he  was  talking 
about.  If  I  catch  him  I'll  teach  him  to  go  around  slander 
ing  people.'  And  after  supper  I  goes  up  town  and  tele 
graphs  to  Mrs.  Conyers,  862  Poplar  Avenue,  Quincy,  111., 
that  the  kid  is  safe  and  sassy  with  us,  and  will  be  held  for 
further  orders.  In  two  hours  an  answer  comes  to  hold  him 
tight,  and  she'll  start  for  him  by  next  train. 

"The  next  train  was  due  at  6  p.  M.  the  next  day,  and  me 
and  John  Tom  was  at  the  depot  with  the  kid.  You  might 
scour  the  plains  in  vain  for  the  big  Chief  Wish-Heap- 
Dough.  In  his  place  is  Mr.  Little  Bear  in  the  human 
habiliments  of  the  Anglo-Saxon  sect;  and  the  leather  of  his 
shoes  is  patented  and  the  loop  of  his  necktie  is  copyrighted. 
For  these  things  John  Tom  had  grafted  on  him  at  college 
along  with  metaphysics  and  the  knockout  guard  for  the 
low  tackle.  But  for  his  complexion,  which  is  some  yellow 
ish,  and  the  black  mop  of  his  straight  hair,  you  might  have 
thought  here  was  an  ordinary  man  out  of  the  city  direc 
tory  that  subscribes  for  magazines  and  pushes  the  lawn- 
mower  in  his  shirt-sleeves  of  evenings. 

"Then  the  train  rolled  in,  and  a  little  woman  in  a  gray 
dress,  with  sort  of  illuminating  hair,  slides  off  and  looks 
around  quick.  And  the  Boy  Avenger  sees  her,  and  yells 
'  Mamma,'  and  she  cries  '  Oh ! '  and  they  meet  in  a  clinch, 
and  now  the  pesky  redskins  can  come  forth  from  their 
caves  on  the  plains  without  fear  any  more  of  the  rifle  of 


44  Rolling  Stones 

Roy,  the  Red  Wolf.  Mrs.  Conyers  comes  up  and  thanks 
me  an' John  Tom  without  the  usual  extremities  you  always 
look  for  in  a  woman.  She  says  just  enough,  in  a  way  to 
convince,  and  there  is  no  incidental  music  by  the  orchestra. 
I  made  a  few  illiterate  requisitions  upon  the  art  of  conver 
sation,  at  which  the  lady  smiles  friendly,  as  if  she  had 
known  me  a  week.  And  then  Mr.  Little  Bear  adorns  the 
atmosphere  with  the  various  idioms  into  which  education 
can  fracture  the  wind  of  speech.  I  could  see  the  kid's 
mother  didn't  quite  place  John  Tom;  but  it  seemed  she 
was  apprised  in  his  dialects,  and  she  played  up  to  his  lead 
in  the  science  of  making  three  words  do  the  work  of  one. 

"That  kid  introduced  us,  with  some  footnotes  and  ex 
planations  that  made  things  plainer  than  a  week  of 
rhetoric.  He  danced  around,  and  punched  us  in  the  back, 
and  tried  to  climb  John  Tom's  leg.  'This  is  John  Tom, 
mamma,'  says  he.  'He's  a  Indian.  He  sells  medicine 
in  a  red  wagon.  I  shot  him,  but  he  wasn't  wild.  The 
other  one's  Jeff.  He's  a  fakir,  too.  Come  on  and  see  the 
camp  where  we  live,  won't  you,  mamma? ' 

"  It  is  plain  to  see  that  the  life  of  the  woman  is  in  that 
boy.  She  has  got  him  again  where  her  arms  can  gather 
him,  and  that's  enough.  She's  ready  to  do  anything  to 
please  him.  She  hesitates  the  eighth  of  a  second  and  takes 
another  look  at  these  men.  I  imagine  she  says  to  herself 
about  John  Tom,  'Seems  to  be  a  gentleman,  if  his  hair 
don't  curl.'  And  Mr.  Peters  she  disposes  of  as  follows: 
'No  ladies'  man,  but  a  man  who  knows  a  lady.' 

"So  we  all  rambled  down  to  the  camp  as  neighborly  as 


John  Tom  Little  Bear  45 

coming  from  a  wake.  And  there  she  inspects  the  wagon, 
and  pats  the  place  with  her  hand  where  the  kid  used  to 
sleep,  and  dabs  around  her  eyewinkers  with  her  handker 
chief.  And  Professor  Binkly  gives  us  'Trovatore'  on  one 
string  of  the  banjo,  and  is  about  to  slide  off  into  Hamlet's 
monologue  when  one  of  the  horses  gets  tangled  in  his  rope 
and  he  must  go  look  after  him,  and  says  something  about 
'foiled  again.' 

"  When  it  got  dark  me  and  John  Tom  walked  back  up  to 
the  Corn  Exchange  Hotel,  and  the  four  of  us  had  supper 
there.  I  think  the  trouble  started  at  that  supper,  for 
then  was  when  Mr.  Little  Bear  made  an  intellectual  bal 
loon  ascension.  I  held  on  to  the  tablecloth,  and  listened 
to  him  soar.  That  redman,  if  I  could  judge,  had  the  gift 
of  information.  He  took  language,  and  did  with  it  all  a 
Roman  can  do  with  macaroni.  His  vocal  remarks  was  all 
embroidered  over  with  the  most  scholarly  verbs  and  pre 
fixes.  And  his  syllables  was  smooth,  and  fitted  nicely  to 
the  joints  of  his  idea.  I  thought  I'd  heard  him  talk  before, 
but  I  hadn't.  And  it  wasn't  the  size  of  his  words,  but  the 
way  they  come;  and  'twasn't  his  subjects,  for  he  spoke  of 
common  things  like  cathedrals  and  football  and  poems  and 
catarrh  and  souls  and  freight  rates  and  sculpture.  Mrs. 
Conyers  understood  his  accents,  and  the  elegant  sounds 
went  back  and  forth  between  'em.  And  now  and  then 
Jefferson  D.  Peters  would  intervene  a  few  shop-worn, 
senseless  words  to  have  the  butter  passed  ur  another  leg  of 
the  chicken. 

"Yes,  John  Tom  Little  Bear  appeared  to  be  inveigled 


46  Rolling  Stones 

some  in  his  bosom  about  that  Mrs.  Conyers.  She  was  of 
the  kind  that  pleases.  She  had  the  good  looks  and  more, 
I'll  tell  you.  You  take  one  of  these  cloak  models  in  a  big 
store.  They  strike  you  as  being  on  the  impersonal  system. 
They  are  adapted  for  the  eye.  What  they  run  to  is  inches 
around  and  complexion,  and  the  art  of  fanning  the  delusion 
that  the  sealskin  would  look  just  as  well  on  the  lady  with 
the  warts  and  the  pocket-book.  Now,  if  one  of  them 
models  was  off  duty,  and  you  took  it,  and  it  would  say 
*  Charlie '  when  you  pressed  it,  and  sit  up  at  the  table,  why, 
then  you  would  have  something  similar  to  Mrs.  Conyers. 
I  could  see  how  John  Tom  could  resist  any  inclination  to 
hate  that  white  squaw. 

"The  lady  and  the  kid  stayed  at  the  hotel.  In  the 
morning,  they  say,  they  will  start  for  home.  Me  and 
Little  Bear  left  at  eight  o'clock,  and  sold  Indian  Remedy 
on  the  courthouse  square  till  nine.  He  leaves  me  and  the 
Professor  to  drive  down  to  camp,  while  he  stays  up  town. 
I  am  not  enamored  with  that  plan,  for  it  shows  John  Tom 
is  uneasy  in  his  composures,  and  that  leads  to  firewater, 
and  sometimes  to  the  green  corn  dance  and  costs.  Not 
often  does  Chief  Wish-Heap-Dough  get  busy  with  the 
firewater,  but  whenever  he  does  there  is  heap  much  doing 
in  the  lodges  of  the  palefaces  who  wear  blue  and  carry  the 
club. 

"At  half -past  nine  Professor  Binkly  is  rolled  in  his  quilt 
snoring  in  blank  verse,  and  I  am  sitting  by  the  fire  listening 
to  the  frogs.  Mr.  Little  Bear  slides  into  camp  and  sits 
down  against  a  tree.  There  is  no  symptoms  of  firewater. 


John  Tom  Little  Bear  47 

"'Jeff/  says  he,  after  a  long  time,  'a  little  boy  came 
West  to  hunt  Indians/ 

'  *  Well,  then? '  says  I,  for  I  wasn't  thinking  as  he  was. 

"'And  he  bagged  one/  says  John  Tom,  'and  'twas  not 
with  a  gun,  and  he  never  had  on  a  velveteen  suit  of  clothes 
in  his  life/  And  then  I  began  to  catch  his  smoke. 

"'I  know  it/  says  I.  'And  I'll  bet  you  his  pictures  are 
on  valentines,  and  fool  men  are  his  game,  red  and  white/ 

"'You  win  on  the  red/  says  John  Tom,  calm.  'Jeff, 
for  how  many  ponies  do  you  think  I  could  buy  Mrs. 
Conyers?' 

"  *  Scandalous  talk ! '  I  replies.  '  'Tis  not  a  paleface  cus 
tom/  John  Tom  laughs  loud  and  bites  into  a  cigar. 
'No/  he  answers;  "tis  the  savage  equivalent  for  the  dol 
lars  of  the  white  man's  marriage  settlement.  Oh,  I  know. 
There's  an  eternal  wall  between  the  races.  If  I  could  do 
it,  Jeff,  I'd  put  a  torch  to  every  white  college  that  a  red- 
man  has  ever  set  foot  inside.  Why  don't  you  leave  us 
alone/  says  he,  'to  our  own  ghost-dances  and  dog-feasts, 
and  our  dingy  squaws  to  cook  our  grasshopper  soup  and 
darn  our  moccasins?' 

"'Now,  you  sure  don't  mean  disrespect  to  the  peren< 
nial  blossom  entitled  education?'  says  I,  scandalized, 
'because  I  wear  it  in  the  bosom  of  my  own  intellectual 
shirt-waist.  I've  had  education/  says  I,  'and  never  took 
any  harm  from  it/ 

"You  lasso  us/  goes  on  Little  Bear,  not  noticing  my 
prose  insertions,  'and  teach  us  what  is  beautiful  in  litera 
ture  and  in  life,  and  how  to  appreciate  what  is  fine  in 


48  Rolling  Stones 

men  and  women.  What  have  you  done  to  me?'  says  he. 
*  You've  made  me  a  Cherokee  Moses.  You've  taught  me 
to  hate  the  wigwams  and  love  the  white  man's  ways.  I 
can  look  over  into  the  promised  land  and  see  Mrs.  Con- 
yers,  but  my  place  is  —  on  the  reservation.' 

"Little  Bear  stands  up  in  his  chief's  dress,  and  laughs 
again.  'But,  white  man  Jeff,'  he  goes  on,  'the  paleface 
provides  a  recourse.  'Tis  a  temporary  one,  but  it  gives 
a  respite  and  the  name  of  it  is  whiskey.'  And  straight  off 
he  walks  up  the  path  to  town  again.  *  Now,'  says  I  in  my 
mind,  'may  the  Manitou  move  him  to  do  only  bailable 
things  this  night!'  For  I  perceive  that  John  Tom  is 
about  to  avail  himself  of  the  white  man's  solace. 

"Maybe  it  was  10:30,  as  I  sat  smoking,  when  I  hear 
pit-a-pats  on  the  path,  and  here  comes  Mrs.  Conyers  run 
ning,  her  hair  twisted  up  any  way,  and  a  look  on  her  face 
that  says  burglars  and  mice  and  the  flour's-all-out  rolled 
in  one.  'Oh,  Mr.  Peters,'  she  calls  out,  as  they  will, 
'oh,  oh!'  I  made  a  quick  think,  and  I  spoke  the  gist  of  it 
out  loud.  'Now,'  says  I,  'we've  been  brothers,  me  and 
that  Indian,  but  I'll  make  a  good  one  of  him  in  two 
minutes  if ' 

"  'No,  no,'  she  says,  wild  and  cracking  her  knuckles, 
'  I  haven't  seen  Mr.  Little  Bear.  'Tis  my  —  husband. 
He's  stolen  my  boy.  Oh,'  she  says,  'just  when  I  had  him 
back  in  my  arms  again!  That  heartless  villain!  Every 
bitterness  life  knows,'  she  says,  'he's  made  me  drink.  My 
poor  little  lamb,  that  ought  to  be  warm  in  his  bed,  carried 
off  by  that  fiend!' 


Morning  Visitors 
(One  of  0.  Henry  s  early  drawings) 


John  Tom  Little  Bear  49 

"'How  did  all  this  happen?'  I  ask.  'Let's  have  the 
facts.' 

" '  I  was  fixing  his  bed,'  she  explains, '  and  Roy  was  play 
ing  on  the  hotel  porch  and  he  drives  up  to  the  steps.  I 
heard  Roy  scream,  and  ran  out.  My  husband  had 
him  in  the  buggy  then.  I  begged  him  for  my  child. 
This  is  what  he  gave  me.'  She  turns  her  face  to 
the  light.  There  is  a  crimson  streak  running  across 
her  cheek  and  mouth.  'He  did  that  with  his  whip,'  she 
says. 

;"Come  back  to  the  hotel,'  says  I,  'and  we'll  see  what 
can  be  done.' 

"On  the  way  she  tells  me  some  of  the  wherefores. 
When  he  slashed  her  with  the  whip  he  told  her  he  found 
out  she  was  coming  for  the  kid,  and  he  was  on  the  same 
train.  Mrs.  Conyers  had  been  living  with  her  brother, 
and  they'd  watched  the  boy  always,  as  her  husband  had 
tried  to  steal  him  before.  I  judge  that  man  was  worse 
than  a  street  railway  promoter.  It  seems  he  had  spent 
her  money  and  slugged  her  and  killed  her  canary  bird,  and 
told  it  around  that  she  had  cold  feet. 

"At  the  hotel  we  found  a  mass  meeting  of  five  infuriated 
citizens  chewing  tobacco  and  denouncing  the  outrage. 
Most  of  the  town  was  asleep  by  ten  o'clock.  I  talks  the 
lady  some  quiet,  and  tells  her  I  will  take  the  one  o'clock 
train  for  the  next  town,  forty  miles  east,  for  it  is  likely  that 
the  esteemed  Mr.  Conyers  will  drive  there  to  take  the  cars. 
'I  don't  know,'  I  tells  her,  'but  what  he  has  legal  rights; 
but  if  I  find  him  I  can  give  him  an  illegal  left  in  the  eye, 


50  Rolling  Stones 

and  tie  him  up  for  a  day  or  two,  anyhow,  on  a  disturbal 
of  the  peace  proposition.' 

"Mrs.  Conyers  goes  inside  and  cries  with  the  landlord's 
wife,  who  is  fixing  some  catnip  tea  that  will  make  every 
thing  all  right  for  the  poor  dear.  The  landlord  comes  out 
on  the  porch,  thumbing  his  one  suspender,  and  says  to  me: 

"'Ain't  had  so  much  excitements  in  town  since  Bedford 
SteegalPs  wife  swallered  a  spring  lizard.  I  seen  him 
through  the  winder  hit  her  with  the  buggy  whip,  and 
everything.  What's  that  suit  of  clothes  cost  you  you 
got  on?  Tears  like  we'd  have  some  rain,  don't  it?  Say, 
.  doc,  that  Indian  of  yorn's  on  a  kind  of  a  whizz  to-night, 
ain't  he?  He  comes  along  just  before  you  did,  and  I  told 
him  about  this  here  occurrence.  He  gives  a  cur'us  kind 
of  a  hoot,  and  trotted  off.  I  guess  our  constable  '11  have 
him  in  the  lock-up  'fore  morning.' 

"I  thought  I'd  sit  on  the  porch  and  wait  for  the  one 
o'clock  train.  I  wasn't  feeling  saturated  with  mirth. 
Here  was  John  Tom  on  one  of  his  sprees,  and  this  kid 
napping  business  losing  sleep  for  me.  But  then,  I'm  al 
ways  having  trouble  with  other  people's  troubles.  Every 
few  minutes  Mrs.  Conyers  would  come  out  on  the  porch 
and  look  down  the  road  the  way  the  buggy  went,  like  she 
expected  to  see  that  kid  coming  back  on  a  white  pony 
with  a  red  apple  in  his  hand.  Now,  wasn't  that  like  a 
woman?  And  that  brings  up  cats.  'I  saw  a  mouse  go  in 
this  hole,'  says  Mrs.  Cat;  'you  can  go  prize  up  a  plank  over 
there  if  you  like;  I'll  watch  this  hole.' 

"About  a  quarter  to  one  o'clock  the  lady  comes  out 


John  Tom  Little  Bear  51 

again,  restless,  crying  easy,  as  females  do  for  their  own 
amusement,  and  she  looks  down  that  road  again  and  lis 
tens.  'Now,  ma'am,'  says  I,  'there's  no  use  watching 
cold  wheel-tracks.  By  this  time  they're  halfway  to 

'     'Hush,'  she  says,  holding  up  her  hand.     And  I 

do  hear  something  coming  'flip-flap'  in  the  dark;  and  then 
there  is  the  awfulest  war-whoop  ever  heard  outside  of 
Madison  Square  Garden  at  a  Buffalo  Bill  matinee.  And 
up  the  steps  and  on  to  the  porch  jumps  the  disrespectable 
Indian.  The  lamp  in  the  hall  shines  on  him,  and  I  fail 
to  recognize  Mr.  J.  T.  Little  Bear,  alumnus  of  the  class  of 
'91.  What  I  see  is  a  Cherokee  brave,  and  the  warpath  is 
what  he  has  been  travelling.  Firewater  and  other  things 
have  got  him  going.  His  buckskin  is  hanging  in  strings, 
and  his  feathers  are  mixed  up  like  a  frizzly  hen's.  The 
dust  of  miles  is  on  his  moccasins,  and  the  light  in  his  eye  is 
the  kind  the  aborigines  wear.  But  in  his  arms  he  brings 
that  kid,  his  eyes  half  closed,  with  his  little  shoes  dangling 
and  one  hand  fast  around  the  Indian's  collar. 

"'Pappoose!'  says  John  Tom,  and  I  notice  that  the 
flowers  of  the  white  man's  syntax  have  left  his  tongue. 
He  is  the  original  proposition  in  bear's  claws  and  copper 
color.  'Me  bring,'  says  he,  and  he  lays  the  kid  in  his 
mother's  arms.  'Run  fifteen  mile,'  says  John  Tom  — 
'Ugh!  Catch  white  man.  Bring  pappoose.' 

"The  little  woman  is  in  extremities  of  gladness.  She 
must  wake  up  that  stir-up  trouble  youngster  and  hug  him 
and  make  proclamation  that  he  is  his  mamma's  own  pre 
cious  treasure.  I  was  about  to  ask  questions,  but  I  looked 


5£  Rolling  Stones 

at  Mr.  Little  Bear,  and  my  eye  caught  the  sight  of  some 
thing  in  his  belt.  'Now  go  to  bed,  ma'am,'  says  I,  'and 
this  gadabout  youngster  likewise,  for  there's  no  more 
danger,  and  the  kidnapping  business  is  not  what  it  was 
earlier  in  the  night.' 

"  I  inveigled  John  Tom  down  to  camp  quick,  and  when 
he  tumbled  over  asleep  I  got  that  thing  out  of  his  belt  and 
disposed  of  it  where  the  eye  of  education  can't  see  it.  For 
even  the  football  colleges  disapprove  of  the  art  of  scalp- 
taking  in  their  curriculums. 

"It  is  ten  o'clock  next  day  when  John  Tom  wakes  up 
and  looks  around.  I  am  glad  to  see  the  nineteenth  cen 
tury  in  his  eye  again. 

"  '  What  was  it,  Jeff?'  he  asks. 

"'Heap  firewater,'  says  I. 

"John  Tom  frowns,  and  thinks  a  little.  'Combined,' 
says  he  directly,  'with  the  interesting  little  physiological 
shake-up  known  as  reversion  to  type.  I  remember  now. 
Have  they  gone  yet?' 

"'On  the  7:30  train,'  I  answers. 

"'Ugh!'  says  John  Tom;  'better  so.     Paleface,  bring 
big  Chief  Wish-Heap-Dough  a  little  bromo-seltzer, 
then  he'll  take  up  the  redman's  burden  again. 


HELPING  THE  OTHER  FELLOW 

[Originally  published  in  Munsey's  Magazine,  December,  1908.] 

"But  can  thim  that  helps  others  help  thimselvesf 

— Mulvaney. 

THIS  is  the  story  that  William  Trotter  told  me  on  the 
beach  at  Aguas  Frescas  while  I  waited  for  the  gig  of  the 
captain  of  the  fruit  steamer  Andador,  which  was  to  take 
me  aboard.  Reluctantly  I  was  leaving  the  Land  of  Al 
ways  Afternoon.  William  was  remaining,  and  he  favored 
me  with  a  condensed  oral  autobiography  as  we  sat  on  the 
sands  in  the  shade  cast  by  the  Bodega  Nacional. 

As  usual,  I  became  aware  that  the  Man  from  Bombay 
had  already  written  the  story;  but  as  he  had  compressed 
it  to  an  eight-word  sentence,  I  have  become  an  expansion 
ist,  and  have  quoted  his  phrase  above,  with  apologies  to 
him  and  best  regards  to  Terence. 

II 

"Don't  you  ever  have  a  desire  to  go  back  to  the  land 
of  derby  hats  and  starched  collars?  "  I  asked  him.  "You 
seem  to  be  a  handy  man  and  a  man  of  action,**  I  con 
tinued,  "and  I  am  sure  I  could  find  you  a  comfortable  job 
somewhere  in  the  States." 

Ragged,  shiftless,  barefooted,  a  confirmed  eater  of  the 

53 


54  Rolling  Stones 

lotos,  William  Trotter  had  pleased  me  much,  and  I  hated 
to  see  him  gobbled  up  by  the  tropics. 

"I've  no  doubt  you  could,"  he  said,  idly  splitting  the 
bark  from  a  section  of  sugar-cane.  "I've  no  doubt  you 
could  do  much  for  me.  If  every  man  could  do  as  much 
for  himself  as  he  can  for  others,  every  country  in  the 
world  would  be  holding  millenniums  instead  of  centen 
nials." 

There  seemed  to  be  pabulum  in  W.  T/s  words.  And 
then  another  idea  came  to  me. 

I  had  a  brother  in  Chicopee  Falls  who  owned  manu 
factories  —  cotton,  or  sugar,  or  A.  A.  sheetings,  or  some 
thing  in  the  commercial  line.  He  was  vulgarly  rich,  and 
therefore  reverenced  art.  The  artistic  temperament  of 
the  family  was  monopolized  at  my  birth.  I  knew  that 
Brother  James  would  honor  my  slightest  wish.  I  would 
demand  from  him  a  position  in  cotton,  sugar,  or  sheetings 
for  William  Trotter  —  something,  say,  at  two  hundred  a 
month  or  thereabouts.  I  confided  my  beliefs  and  made 
my  large  propositions  to  William.  He  had  pleased  me 
much,  and  he  was  ragged. 

While  we  were  talking,  there  was  a  sound  of  firing  guns 
—  four  or  five,  rattlingly,  as  if  by  a  squad.  The  cheerful 
noise  came  from  the  direction  of  the  cuartel,  which  is  a 
kind  of  makeshift  barracks  for  the  soldiers  of  the  republic. 

"Hear  that? "  said  William  Trotter.  "Let  me  tell  you 
about  it. 

"A  year  ago  I  landed  on  this  coast  with  one  solitary 
dollar.  I  have  the  same  sum  in  my  pocket  to-day.  I 


Helping  the  Other  Fellow  55 

was  second  cook  on  a  tramp  fruiter;  and  they  marooned 
me  here  early  one  morning,  without  benefit  of  clergy, 
just  because  I  poulticed  the  face  of  the  first  mate  with 
cheese  omelette  at  dinner.  The  fellow  had  kicked  be 
cause  I'd  put  horseradish  in  it  instead  of  cheese. 

"When  they  threw  me  out  of  the  yawl  into  three  feet 
of  surf,  I  waded  ashore  and  sat  down  under  a  palm-tree. 
By  and  by  a  fine-looking  white  man  with  a  red  face  and 
white  clothes,  genteel  as  possible,  but  somewhat  under  the 
influence,  came  and  sat  down  beside  me. 

"I  had  noticed  there  was  a  kind  of  a  village  back  of  the 
beach,  and  enough  scenery  to  outfit  a  dozen  moving- 
picture  shows.  But  I  thought,  of  course,  it  was  a  cannibal 
suburb,  and  I  was  wondering  whether  I  was  to  be  served 
with  carrots  or  mushrooms.  And,  as  I  say,  this  dressed- 
up  man  sits  beside  me,  and  we  become  friends  in  the  space 
of  a  minute  or  two.  For  an  hour  we  talked,  and  he  told 
me  all  about  it. 

"It  seems  that  he  was  a  man  of  parts,  conscientious 
ness,  and  plausibility,  besides  being  educated  and  a 
wreck  to  his  appetites.  He  told  me  all  about  it.  Col 
leges  had  turned  him  out,  and  distilleries  had  taken  him 
in.  Did  I  tell  you  his  name?  It  was  Clifford  Wain- 
wright.  I  didn't  exactly  catch  the  cause  of  his  being  cast 
away  on  that  particular  stretch  of  South  America;  but  I 
reckon  it  was  his  own  business.  I  asked  him  if  he'd  ever 
been  second  cook  on  a  tramp  fruiter,  and  he  said  no;  so 
that  concluded  my  line  of  surmises.  But  he  talked  like 
the  encyclopedia  from  'A  —  Berlin'  to  'Trilo  —  Zyria.' 


56  Rolling  Stones 

And  he  carried  a  watch — a  silver  arrangement  with  works, 
and  up  to  date  within  twenty-four  hours,  anyhow. 

"'I'm  pleased  to  have  met  you,'  says  Wainwright. 
'I'm  a  devotee  to  the  great  joss  Booze;  but  my  ruminating 
facilities  are  unrepaired,'  says  he  —  or  words  to  that  effect. 
4  And  I  hate,'  says  he,  'to  see  fools  trying  to  run  the  world.' 

"'I  never  touch  a  drop,'  says  I,  'and  there  are  many 
kinds  of  fools;  and  the  world  runs  on  its  own  apex,  accord 
ing  to  science,  with  no  meddling  from  me.' 

'"I  was  referring,'  says  he,  'to  the  president  of  this 
republic.  His  country  is  in  a  desperate  condition.  Its 
treasury  is  empty,  it's  on  the  verge  of  war  with  Nicamala, 
and  if  it  wasn't  for  the  hot  weather  the  people  would  be 
starting  revolutions  in  every  town.  Here  is  a  nation,' 
goes  on  Wainwright, '  on  the  brink  of  destruction.  A  man 
of  intelligence  could  rescue  it  from  its  impending  doom  in 
one  day  by  issuing  the  necessary  edicts  and  orders.  Pres 
ident  Gomez  knows  nothing  of  statesmanship  or  policy. 
Do  you  know  Adam  Smith?' 

"'Lemme  see,'  says  I.  'There  was  a  one-eared  man 
named  Smith  in  Fort  Worth,  Texas,  but  I  think  his  first 
name  was ' 

" '  I  am  referring  to  the  political  economist,'  says  Wain 
wright. 

"'S'mother  Smith,  then,'  says  I.  'The  one  I  speak  of 
never  was  arrested.' 

"So  Wainwright  boils  some  more  with  indignation  at 
the  insensibility  of  people  who  are  not  corpulent  to  fill 
public  positions;  and  then  he  tells  me  he  is  going  out  to 


Helping  the  Other  Fellow  57 

the  president's  summer  palace,  which  is  four  miles  from 
Aguas  Frescas,  to  instruct  him  in  the  art  of  running  steam- 
heated  republics. 

"'Come  along  with  me,  Trotter/  says  he,  'and  I'll  show 
you  what  brains  can  do.' 

"'Anything  in  it?'  I  asks. 

"'The  satisfaction,'  says  he,  'of  redeeming  a  country 
of  two  hundred  thousand  population  from  ruin  back  to 
prosperity  and  peace.' 

"'Great,'  says  I.  'I'll  go  with  you.  I'd  prefer  to  eat 
a  live  broiled  lobster  just  now;  but  give  me  liberty  as 
second  choice  if  I  can't  be  in  at  the  death.' 

"  Wainwright  and  me  permeates  through  the  town,  and 
he  halts  at  a  rum-dispensary. 

'"Have  you  any  money?'  he  asks. 

:"I  have,'  says  I,  fishing  out  my  silver  dollar.  'I 
always  go  about  with  adequate  sums  of  money.' 

'"Then  we'll  drink,'  says  Wainwright. 

'"Not  me/  says  I.  'Not  any  demon  rum  or  any  of  its 
ramifications  for  mine.  It's  one  of  my  non-weaknesses.' 

:"It's  my  failing/  says  he.  'What's  your  particular 
soft  point?' 

"'Industry/  says  I,  promptly.  'I'm  hard-working, 
diligent,  industrious,  and  energetic.' 

'"My  dear  Mr.  Trotter/  says  he,  'surely  I've  known 
you  long  enough  to  tell  you  you  are  a  liar.  Every  man 
must  have  his  own  particular  weakness,  and  his  own  par 
ticular  strength  in  other  things.  Now,  you  will  buy  me  a 
drink  of  rum,  and  we  will  call  on  President  Gomez/ 


58  Rolling  Stones 

III 

"Well,  sir,"  Trotter  went  on,  "we  walks  the  four  miles 
out,  through  a  virgin  conservatory  of  palms  and  ferns  and 
other  roof-garden  products,  to  the  president's  summer 
White  House.  It  was  blue,  and  reminded  you  of  what  you 
see  on  the  stage  in  the  third  act,  which  they  describe  as 
'same  as  the  first'  on  the  programs. 

"There  was  more  than  fifty  people  waiting  outside  the 
iron  fence  that  surrounded  the  house  and  grounds.  There 
was  generals  and  agitators  and  epergnes  in  gold-laced 
uniforms,  and  citizens  in  diamonds  and  Panama  hats  — 
all  waiting  to  get  an  audience  with  the  Royal  Five-Card 
Draw.  And  in  a  kind  of  a  summer-house  in  front  of  the 
mansion  we  could  see  a  burnt-sienna  man  eating  breakfast 
out  of  gold  dishes  and  taking  his  time.  I  judged  that  the 
crowd  outside  had  come  out  for  their  morning  orders  and 
requests,  and  was  afraid  to  intrude. 

"But  C.  Wainwright  wasn't.  The  gate  was  open,  and 
he  walked  inside  and  up  to  the  president's  table  as  con 
fident  as  a  man  who  knows  the  head  waiter  in  a  fifteen- 
cent  restaurant.  And  I  went  with  him,  because  I  had 
only  seventy-five  cents,  and  there  was  nothing  else  to 
do. 

"The  Gomez  man  rises  from  his  chair,  and  looks,  colored 
man  as  he  was,  like  he  was  about  to  call  out  for  corporal  of 
the  guard,  post  number  one.  But  Wainwright  says  some 
phrases  to  him  in  a  peculiarly  lubricating  manner;  and 
the  first  thing  you  know  we  was  all  three  of  us  seated  at 


Helping  the  Other  Fellow  59 

the  table,  with  coffee  and  rolls  and  iguana  cutlets  coming 
as  fast  as  about  ninety  peons  could  rustle  'em. 

"And  then  Wainwright  begins  to  talk;  but  the  president 
interrupts  him. 

"'You  Yankees,'  says  he,  polite,  *  assuredly  take  the 
cake  for  assurance,  I  assure  you'  —  or  words  to  that  effect. 
He  spoke  English  better  than  you  or  me.  *  You've  had 
a  long  walk,'  says  he,  'but  it's  nicer  in  the  cool  morning  to 
walk  than  to  ride.  May  I  suggest  some  refreshments?' 
says  he. 

!"Rum,'  says  Wainwright. 

'"  Gimme  a  cigar,'  says  I. 

"Well,  sir,  the  two  talked  an  hour,  keeping  the  generals 
and  equities  all  in  their  good  uniforms  waiting  outside  the 
fence.  And  while  I  smoked,  silent,  I  listened  to  Clifford 
Wainwright  making  a  solid  republic  out  of  the  wreck  of 
one.  I  didn't  follow  his  arguments  with  any  special  col 
location  of  international  intelligibility;  but  he  had  Mr. 
Gomez's  attention  glued  and  riveted.  He  takes  out  a 
pencil  and  marks  the  white  linen  tablecloth  all  over  with 
figures  and  estimates  and  deductions.  He  speaks  more  or 
less  disrespectfully  of  import  and  export  duties  and  cus 
tom-house  receipts  and  taxes  and  treaties  and  budgets  and 
concessions  and  such  truck  that  politics  and  government 
require;  and  when  he  gets  through  the  Gomez  man  hops 
up  and  shakes  his  hand  and  says  he's  saved  the  country 
and  the  people. 

"You  shall  be  rewarded,'  says  the  president. 

"'Might  I  suggest  another  —  rum?'  says  Wainwright. 


60  Rolling  Stones 

"'  Cigar  for  me  —  darker  brand,'  says  I. 

"Well,  sir,  the  president  sent  me  and  Wainwright  back 
to  the  town  in  a  victoria  hitched  to  two  flea-bitten  selling- 
platers  —  but  the  best  the  country  afforded. 

"I  found  out  afterward  that  Wainwright  was  a  regular 
beachcomber  —  the  smartest  man  on  the  whole  coast,  but 
kept  down  by  rum.  I  liked  him. 

"One  day  I  inveigled  him  into  a  walk  out  a  couple  of 
miles  from  the  village,  where  there  was  an  old  grass  hut  on 
the  bank  of  a  little  river.  While  he  was  sitting  on  the 
grass,  talking  beautiful  of  the  wisdom  of  the  world  that  he 
had  learned  in  books,  I  took  hold  of  him  easy  and  tied  his 
hands  and  feet  together  with  leather  thongs  that  I  had 
in  my  pocket. 

"'Lie  still,'  says  I,  'and  meditate  on  the  exigencies  and 
irregularities  of  life  till  I  get  back.' 

"I  went  to  a  shack  in  Aguas  Frescas  where  a  mighty 
wise  girl  named  Timotea  Carrizo  lived  with  her  mother. 
The  girl  was  just  about  as  nice  as  you  ever  saw.  In  the 
States  she  would  have  been  called  a  brunette;  but  she  was 
better  than  a  brunette  —  I  should  say  she  was  what  you 
might  term  an  ecru  shade.  I  knew  her  pretty  well.  I 
told  her  about  my  friend  Wainwright.  She  gave  me  a 
double  handful  of  bark  —  calisaya,  I  think  it  was  —  and 
some  more  herbs  that  I  was  to  mix  with  it,  and  told  me 
what  to  do.  I  was  to  make  tea  of  it  and  give  it  to  him, 
and  keep  him  from  rum  for  a  certain  time.  And  for  two 
weeks  I  did  it.  You  know,  I  liked  Wainwright.  Both  of 
us  was  broke;  but  Timotea  sent  us  goat-meat  and  plan- 


Helping  the  Other  Fellow  Cl 

tains  and  tortillas  every  day;  and  at  last  I  got  the  curse  of 
drink  lifted  from  Clifford  Wainwright.  He  lost  his  taste 
for  it.  And  in  the  cool  of  the  evening  him  and  me  would 
sit  on  the  roof  of  Timotea's  mother's  hut,  eating  harmless 
truck  like  coffee  and  rice  and  stewed  crabs,  and  playing 
the  accordion. 

"About  that  time  President  Gomez  found  out  that  the 
advice  of  C.  Wainwright  was  the  stuff  he  had  been  looking 
for.  The  country  was  pulling  out  of  debt,  and  the  treas 
ury  had  enough  boodle  in  it  for  him  to  amuse  himself 
occasionally  with  the  night-latch.  The  people  were 
beginning  to  take  their  two-hour  siestas  again  every  day 

—  which  was  the  surest  sign  of  prosperity. 

"So  down  from  the  regular  capital  he  sends  for  Clif 
ford  Wainwright  and  makes  him  his  private  secretary  at 
twenty  thousand  Peru  dollars  a  year.  Yes,  sir  —  so 
much.  Wainwright  was  on  the  water-wagon  —  thanks 
to  me  and  Timotea  —  and  he  was  soon  in  clover  with  the 
government  gang.  Don't  forget  what  done  it  —  calisaya 
bark  with  them  other  herbs  mixed  —  make  a  tea  of  it, 
and  give  a  cupful  every  two  hours.  Try  it  yourself.  It 
takes  away  the  desire. 

"As  I  said,  a  man  can  do  a  lot  more  for  another  party 
than  he  can  for  himself.  Wainwright,  with  his  brains, 
got  a  whole  country  out  of  trouble  and  on  its  feet;  but 
what  could  he  do  for  himself?  And  without  any  special 
brains,  but  with  some  nerve  and  common  sense,  I  put  him 
on  his  feet  because  I  never  had  the  weakness  that  he  did 

—  nothing  but  a  cigar  for  mine,  thanks.     And " 


62  Rolling  Stones 

Trotter  paused.  I  looked  at  his  tattered  clothes  and 
at  his  deeply  sunburnt,  hard,  thoughtful  face. 

"Didn't  Cartright  ever  offer  to  do  anything  for  you?" 
I  asked. 

"Wainwright,"  corrected  Trotter.  "Yes,  he  offered 
me  some  pretty  good  jobs.  But  I'd  have  had  to  leave 
Aguas  Frescas;  so  I  didn't  take  any  of  'em  up.  Say,  I 
didn't  tell  you  much  about  that  girl  —  Timotea.  We 
rather  hit  it  off  together.  She  was  as  good  as  you  find 
'em  anywhere  —  Spanish,  mostly,  with  just  a  twist  of 
lemon-peel  on  top.  What  if  they  did  live  in  a  grass  hut 
and  went  bare-armed? 

"A  month  ago,"  went  on  Trotter,  "she  went  away.  I 
don't  know  where  to.  But " 

"  You'd  better  come  back  to  the  States,"  I  insisted.  "  I 
can  promise  you  positively  that  my  brother  will  give  you 
a  position  in  cotton,  sugar,  or  sheetings  —  I  am  not  cer 
tain  which." 

"I  think  she  went  back  with  her  mother,"  said  Trotter, 
"to  the  village  in  the  mountains  that  they  come  from. 
Tell  me,  what  would  this  job  you  speak  of  pay?" 

"Why,"  said  I,  hesitating  over  commerce,  "I  should  say 
fifty  or  a  hundred  dollars  a  month — maybe  two  hundred." 

"Ain't  it  funny,"  said  Trotter,  digging  his  toes  in  the 
sand,  "what  a  chump  a  man  is  when  it  comes  to  paddling 
his  own  canoe?  I  don't  know.  Of  course,  I'm  not  mak 
ing  a  living  here.  I'm  on  the  bum.  But  —  well,  I  wish 
you  could  have  seen  that  Timotea.  Every  man  has  his 
own  weak  spot." 


Helping  the  Other  Fellow  63 

The  gig  from  the  Andador  was  coining  ashore  to  take 
out  the  captain,  purser,  and  myself,  the  lone  passenger. 

"I'll  guarantee,"  said  I  confidently,  "that  my  brother 
will  pay  you  seventy-five  dollars  a  month." 

"All  right,  then,"  said  William  Trotter.     " 111 " 

But  a  soft  voice  called  across  the  blazing  sands.  A 
girl,  faintly  lemon-tinted,  stood  in  the  Calle  Real  and 
called.  She  was  bare-armed  —  but  what  of  that? 

"It's  her!"  said  William  Trotter,  looking.  "She's 
come  back!  I'm  obliged;  but  I  can't  take  the  job. 
Thanks,  just  the  same.  Ain't  it  funny  how  we  can't  do 
nothing  for  ourselves,  but  we  can  do  wonders  for  the  other 
fellow?  You  was  about  to  get  me  with  your  financial 
proposition;  but  we've  all  got  our  weak  points.  Timo- 
tea's  mine.  And,  say!"  Trotter  had  turned  to  leave,  but 
he  retraced  the  step  or  two  that  he  had  taken.  "I  like 
to  have  left  you  without  saying  good-bye,"  said  he.  "It 
kind  of  rattles  you  when  they  go  away  unexpected  for  a 
month  and  come  back  the  same  way.  Shake  hands.  So 
long!  Say,  do  you  remember  them  gunshots  we  heard  a 
while  ago  up  at  the  cuartel?  Well,  I  knew  what  they  was* 
but  I  didn't  mention  it.  It  was  Clifford  Wainwright 
being  shot  by  a  squad  of  soldiers  against  a  stone  wall  for 
giving  away  secrets  of  state  to  that  Nicamala  republic. 
Oh,  yes,  it  was  rum  that  did  it.  He  backslided  and  got 
his.  I  guess  we  all  have  our  weak  points,  and  can't  do 
much  toward  helping  ourselves.  Mine's  waiting  for  me. 
I'd  have  liked  to  have  that  job  with  your  brother,  but  — 
we've  all  got  our  weak  points.  So  long!" 


64  Rolling  Stones 

IV 

A  big  black  Carib  carried  me  on  his  back  through  the 
surf  to  the  ship's  boat.  On  the  way  the  purser  handed 
me  a  letter  that  he  had  brought  for  me  at  the  last  moment 
from  the  post-office  in  Aguas  Frescas.  It  was  from  my 
brother.  He  requested  me  to  meet  him  at  the  St.  Charles 
Hotel  in  New  Orleans  and  accept  a  position  with  his 
house  —  in  either  cotton,  sugar,  or  sheetings,  and  with  five 
thousand  dollars  a  year  as  my  salary. 

When  I  arrived  at  the  Crescent  City  I  hurried  away — 
far  away  from  the  St.  Charles  to  a  dim  chambre  garnie  in 
Bienville  Street.  And  there,  looking  down  from  my  attic 
window  from  time  to  time  at  the  old,  yellow,  absinthe 
house  across  the  street,  I  wrote  this  story  to  buy  my  bread 
and  butter. 

"Can  thim  that  helps  others  help  thimselves?" 


wff* 

Can  the  horse  run? 
Yes,  the  horse  can  run. 
I  don't  think. 

From  The  Rolling  Stone 


Will  you  go  in? 
Oh,  yes!  I  will  go  in. 

From  The  Rolling  Stone 


THE  MAHIONETTES 

[Originally  published  in  The  Black  Cat  for  April,  1902.] 

THE  policeman  was  standing  at  the  corner  of  Twenty- 
fourth  Street  and  a  prodigiously  dark  alley  near  where  the 
elevated  railroad  crosses  the  street.  The  time  was  two 
o'clock  in  the  morning;  the  outlook  a  stretch  of  cold, 
drizzling,  unsociable  blackness  until  the  dawn. 

A  man,  wearing  a  long  overcoat,  with  his  hat  tilted 
down  in  front,  and  carrying  something  in  one  hand,  walked 
softly  but  rapidly  out  of  the  black  alley.  The  policeman 
accosted  him  civilly,  but  with  the  assured  air  that  is  linked 
with  conscious  authority.  The  hour,  the  alley's  musty 
reputation,  the  pedestrian's  haste,  the  burden  he  carried 
—  these  easily  combined  into  the  "  suspicious  circum 
stances"  that  required  illumination  at  the  officer's  hands. 

The  "suspect"  halted  readily  and  tilted  back  his  hat, 
exposing,  in  the  flicker  of  the  electric  lights,  an  emotion 
less,  smooth  countenance  with  a  rather  long  nose  and 
steady  dark  eyes.  Thrusting  his  gloved  hand  into  a  side 
pocket  of  his  overcoat,  he  drew  out  a  card  and  handed  it  to 
the  policeman.  Holding  it  to  catch  the  uncertain  light, 
the  officer  read  the  name  "Charles  Spencer  James,  M.  D." 
The  street  and  number  of  the  address  were  of  a  neighbor 
hood  so  solid  and  respectable  as  to  subdue  even  curiosity. 

65 


66  Rolling  Stones 

The  policeman's  downward  glance  at  the  article  carried 
in  the  doctor's  hand  —  a  handsome  medicine  case  of  black 
leather,  with  small  silver  mountings  —  further  endorsed 
the  guarantee  of  the  card. 

"All  right,  doctor,"  said  the  officer,  stepping  aside,  with 
an  air  of  bulky  affability.  "Orders  are  to  be  extra  care 
ful.  Good  many  burglars  and  hold-ups  lately.  Bad 
night  to  be  out.  Not  so  cold,  but  —  clammy." 

With  a  formal  inclination  of  his  head,  and  a  word  or  two 
corroborative  of  the  officer's  estimate  of  the  weather,  Doc 
tor  James  continued  his  somewhat  rapid  progress.  Three-1 
times  that  night  had  a  patrolman  accepted  his  profes 
sional  card  and  the  sight  of  his  paragon  of  a  medicine  case- 
as  vouchers  for  his  honesty  of  person  and  purpose.  Had 
any  one  of  those  officers  seen  fit,  on  the  morrow,  to  test 
the  evidence  of  that  card  he  would  have  found  it  borne  out 
by  the  doctor's  name  on  a  handsome  door-plate,  his  pres 
ence,  calm  and  well  dressed,  in  his  well-equipped  office  — 
provided  it  were  not  too  early,  Doctor  James  being  a  late 
riser  —  and  the  testimony  of  the  neighborhood  to  his  good 
citizenship,  his  devotion  to  his  family,  and  his  success  as  a 
practitioner  the  two  years  he  had  lived  among  them. 

Therefore,  it  would  have  much  surprised  any  one  of 
those  zealous  guardians  of  the  peace  could  they  have 
taken  a  peep  into  that  immaculate  medicine  case.  UpoK 
opening  it,  the  first  article  to  be  seen  would  have  been  an 
elegant  set  of  the  latest  conceived  tools  used  by  the  "box 
man,"  as  the  ingenious  safe  burglar  now  denominates  him 
self.  Specially  designed  and  constructed  were  the  imple- 


The  Marionettes  67 

ments  —  the  short  but  powerful  "jimmy,"  the  collection 
of  curiously  fashioned  keys,  the  blued  drills  and  punches 
of  the  finest  temper  —  capable  of  eating  their  way  into 
chilled  steel  as  a  mouse  eats  into  a  cheese,  and  the  clamps 
that  fasten  like  a  leech  to  the  polished  door  of  a  safe  and 
pull  out  the  combination  knob  as  a  dentist  extracts  a 
tooth.  In  a  little  pouch  in  the  inner  side  of  the  "  medicine" 
case  was  a  four-ounce  vial  of  nitroglycerine,  now  half 
empty.  Underneath  the  tools  was  a  mass  of  crumpled 
banknotes  and  a  few  handfuls  of  gold  coin,  the  money, 
altogether,  amounting  to  eight  hundred  and  thirty  dollars. 

To  a  very  limited  circle  of  friends  Doctor  James  was 
known  as  "The  Swell  'Greek.'"  Half  of  the  mysterious 
term  was  a  tribute  to  his  cool  and  gentlemanlike  manners; 
the  other  half  denoted,  in  the  argot  of  the  brotherhood,  the 
leader,  the  planner,  the  one  who,  by  the  power  and  pres 
tige  of  his  address  and  position,  secured  the  information 
upon  which  they  based  their  plans  and  desperate  enter 
prises. 

Of  this  elect  circle  the  other  members  were  Skitsie 
Morgan  and  Gum  Decker,  expert  "box  men,"  and  Leo 
pold  Pretzfelder,  a  jeweller  downtown,  who  manipulated 
the  "sparklers"  and  other  ornaments  collected  by  the 
working  trio.  All  good  and  loyal  men,  as  loose-tongued  as 
Memnon  and  as  fickle  as  the  North  Star. 

That  night's  work  had  not  been  considered  by  the  firm 
to  have  yielded  more  than  a  moderate  repayal  for  their 
pains.  An  old-style  two-story  side-bolt  safe  in  the  dingy 
office  of  a  very  wealthy  old-style  dry-goods  firm  on  a 


68  Rolling  Stones 

Saturday  night  should  have  excreted  more  than  twenty- 
five  hundred  dollars.  But  that  was  all  they  found,  and 
they  had  divided  it,  the  three  of  them,  into  equal  shares 
upon  the  spot,  as  was  their  custom.  Ten  or  twelve  thou 
sand  was  what  they  expected.  But  one  of  the  proprietors 
had  proved  to  be  just  a  trifle  too  old-style.  Just  after 
dark  he  had  carried  home  in  a  shirt  box  most  of  the  funds 
on  hand. 

Doctor  James  proceeded  up  Twenty-fourth  Street,  which 
was,  to  all  appearance,  depopulated.  Even  the  theatrical 
folk,  who  affect  this  district  as  a  place  of  residence,  were 
long  since  abed.  The  drizzle  had  accumulated  upon  the 
street;  puddles  of  it  among  the  stones  received  the  fire 
of  the  arc  lights,  and  returned  it,  shattered  into  a  myriad 
liquid  spangles.  A  captious  wind,  shower-soaked  and 
chilling,  coughed  from  the  laryngeal  flues  between  the 
houses. 

As  the  practitioner's  foot  struck  even  with  the  corner  of 
a  tall  brick  residence  of  more  pretension  than  its  fellows 
the  front  door  popped  open,  and  a  bawling  negress  clat 
tered  down  the  steps  to  the  pavement.  Some  medley  of 
words  came  from  her  mouth,  addressed,  like  as  not,  to 
herself  —  the  recourse  of  her  race  when  alone  and  beset 
by  evil.  She  looked  to  be  one  of  that  old  vassal  class  of 
the  South  —  voluble,  familiar,  loyal,  irrepressible;  her 
person  pictured  it  —  fat,  neat,  aproned,  kerchiefed. 

This  sudden  apparition,  spewed  from  the  silent  house, 
reached  the  bottom  of  the  steps  as  Doctor  James  came 
opposite.  Her  brain  transferring  its  energies  from  sound 


The  Marionettes  69 

to  sight,  she  ceased  her  clamor  and  fixed  her  pop-eyes 
upon  the  case  the  doctor  carried. 

"Bress  de  Lawd!"  was  the  benison  the  sight  drew  from 
her.  "Is  you  a  doctor,  suh?" 

"Yes,  I  am  a  physician,"  said  Doctor  James,  pausing. 

"Den  fo'  God's  sake  come  and  see  Mister  Chandler, 
suh.  He  done  had  a  fit  or  sump'n.  He  layin'  jist  like 
he  wuz  dead.  Miss  Amy  sont  me  to  git  a  doctor.  Lawd 
knows  whar  old  Cindy'd  a  skeared  one  up  from,  if  you, 
suh,  hadn't  come  along.  Ef  old  Mars'  knowed  one  ten- 
hundredth  part  of  dese  doin's  dey'd  be  shootin'  gwine  on, 
suh  —  pistol  shootin'  —  leb'm  feet  marked  off  on  de 
ground,  and  ev'ybody  a-duellin'.  And  dat  po'  lamb, 
Miss  Amy " 

"  Lead  the  way,"  said  Doctor  James,  setting  his  foot 
upon  the  step,  "if  you  want  me  as  a  doctor.  As  an  auditor 
I'm  not  open  to  engagements." 

The  negress  preceded  him  into  the  house  and  up  a  flight 
of  thickly  carpeted  stairs.  Twice  they  came  to  dimly 
lighted  branching  hallways.  At  the  second  one  the  now 
panting  conductress  turned  down  a  hall,  stopping  at  a 
door  and  opening  it. 

"I  done  brought  de  doctor,  Miss  Amy." 

Doctor  James  entered  the  room,  and  bowed  slightly 
to  a  young  lady  standing  by  the  side  of  a  bed.  He  set 
his  medicine  case  upon  a  chair,  removed  his  overcoat, 
throwing  it  over  the  case  and  the  back  of  the  chair,  and 
advanced  with  quiet  self-possession  to  the  bedside. 

There  lay  a  man,  sprawling  as  he  had  fallen  —  a  man 


70  Rolling  Stones 

dressed  richly  in  the  prevailing  mode,  with  only  his  shoes 
removed;  lying  relaxed,  and  as  still  as  the  dead.  ,< 

There  emanated  from  Doctor  James  an  aura  of  calm 
force  and  reserve  strength  that  was  as  manna  in  the  desert 
to  the  weak  and  desolate  among  his  patrons.  Always  had 
women,  especially,  been  attracted  by  something  in  his 
sick-room  manner.  It  was  not  the  indulgent  suavity  of 
the  fashionable  healer,  but  a  manner  of  poise,  of  sureness, 
of  ability  to  overcome  fate,  of  deference  and  protection 
and  devotion.  There  was  an  exploring  magnetism  in  his 
steadfast,  luminous  brown  eyes;  a  latent  authority  in  the 
impassive,  even  priestly,  tranquillity  of  his  smooth  coun 
tenance  that  outwardly  fitted  him  for  the  part  of  confi 
dant  and  consoler.  Sometimes,  at  his  first  professional 
visit,  women  would  tell  him  where  they  hid  their  diamonds 
at  night  from  the  burglars. 

With  the  ease  of  much  practice,  Doctor  James's  unroving 
eyes  estimated  the  order  and  quality  of  the  room's  fur 
nishings.  The  appointments  were  rich  and  costly.  The 
same  glance  had  secured  cognizance  of  the  lady's  appear 
ance.  She  was  small  and  scarcely  past  twenty.  Her 
face  possessed  the  title  to  a  winsome  prettiness,  now  ob 
scured  by  (you  would  say)  rather  a  fixed  melancholy  than 
the  more  violent  imprint  of  a  sudden  sorrow.  Upon  her 
forehead,  above  one  eyebrow,  was  a  livid  bruise,  suffered, 
the  physician's  eye  told  him,  within  the  past  six  hours. 

Doctor  James's  fingers  went  to  the  man's  wrist.  His 
almost  vocal  eyes  questioned  the  lady. 

"I  am  Mrs.  Chandler,"  she  responded,  speaking  with 


The  Marionettes  71 

the  plaintive  Southern  slur  and  intonation.  "My  hus 
band  was  taken  suddenly  ill  about  ten  minutes  before  you 
came.  He  has  had  attacks  of  heart  trouble  before  — 
some  of  them  were  very  bad."  His  clothed  state  and  the 
late  hour  seemed  to  prompt  her  to  further  explanation. 
"He  had  been  out  late;  to  —  a  supper,  I  believe." 

Doctor  James  now  turned  his  attention  to  his  patient. 
In  whichever  of  his  "professions'*  he  happened  to  be 
engaged  he  was  wont  to  honor  the  "case"  or  the  "job" 
with  his  whole  interest. 

The  sick  man  appeared  to  be  about  thirty.  His  coun 
tenance  bore  a  look  of  boldness  and  dissipation,  but  was 
not  without  a  symmetry  of  feature  and  the  fine  lines 
drawn  by  a  taste  and  indulgence  in  humor  that  gave  the 
redeeming  touch.  There  was  an  odor  of  spilled  wine 
about  his  clothes. 

The  physician  laid  back  his  outer  garments,  and  then, 
with  a  penknife,  slit  the  shirt-front  from  collar  to  waist. 
The  obstacles  cleared,  he  laid  his  ear  to  the  heart  and  lis 
tened  intently. 

"Mitral  regurgitation?"  he  said,  softly,  when  he  rose. 
The  words  ended  with  the  rising  inflection  of  uncertainty. 
Again  he  listened  long;  and  this  time  he  said,  "Mitral 
insufficiency,"  with  the  accent  of  an  assured  diagnosis 

"Madam,"  he  began,  in  the  reassuring  tones  that  had 

so  often  allayed  anxiety, "there  is  a  probability "    As 

he  slowly  turned  his  head  to  face  the  lady,  he  saw  her  fall, 
white  and  swooning,  into  the  arms  of  the  old  negress. 

"Po*  lamb!   po*   lamb!    Has  dey   done  killed  Aunt 


72  Rolling  Stones 

Cindy's  own  blessed  child?  May  de  Lawd  'stroy  wid  his 
wrath  dem  what  stole  her  away;  what  break  dat  angel 
heart;  what  left " 

"Lift  her  feet,"  said  Doctor  James,  assisting  to  support 
the  drooping  form.  "Where  is  her  room?  She  must  be 
put  to  bed." 

"In  here,  suh."  The  woman  nodded  her  kerchiefed 
head  toward  a  door.  "Dat's  Miss  Amy's  room." 

They  carried  her  in  there,  and  laid  her  on  the  bed. 
Her  pulse  was  faint,  but  regular.  She  passed  from  the 
swoon,  without  recovering  consciousness,  into  a  pro 
found  slumber. 

"She  is  quite  exhausted,"  said  the  physician.  "Sleep 
is  a  good  remedy.  When  she  wakes,  give  her  a  toddy  — 
with  an  egg  in  it,  if  she  can  take  it.  How  did  she  get 
that  bruise  upon  her  forehead?" 

"  She  done  got  a  lick  there,  suh.  De  po'  lamb  fell  — 
No,  suh"  —  the  old  woman's  racial  mutability  swept  her 
into  a  sudden  flare  of  indignation — "old  Cindy  ain't 
gwineter  lie  for  dat  debble.  He  done  it,  suh.  May  de 
Lawd  wither  de  hand  what  —  dar  now!  Cindy  promise 
her  sweet  lamb  she  ain't  gwine  tell.  Miss  Amy  got  hurt, 
suh,  on  de  head." 

Doctor  James  stepped  to  a  stand  where  a  handsome 
lamp  burned,  and  turned  the  flame  low. 

"Stay  here  with  your  mistress,"  he  ordered,  "and  keep 
quiet  so  she  will  sleep.  If  she  wakes,  give  her  the  toddy. 
If  she  grows  any  weaker,  let  me  know.  There  is  some 
thing  strange  about  it." 


The  Marionettes  73 

"Dar's  mo*  strange  t'ings  dan  dat  'round  here,"  began 
the  negress,  but  the  physician  hushed  her  in  a  seldom- 
employed  peremptory,  concentrated  voice  with  which  he 
had  often  allayed  hysteria  itself.  He  returned  to  the 
other  room,  closing  the  door  softly  behind  him.  The  man 
on  the  bed  had  not  moved,  but  his  eyes  were  open.  His 
lips  seemed  to  form  words.  Doctor  James  bent  his  head 
to  listen.  "  The  money !  the  money ! "  was  what  they  were 
whispering. 

"Can  you  understand  what  I  say?"  asked  the  doctor, 
speaking  low,  but  distinctly. 

The  head  nodded  slightly. 

"I  am  a  physician,  sent  for  by  your  wife.  You  are 
Mr.  Chandler,  I  am  told.  You  are  quite  ill.  You  must 
not  excite  or  distress  yourself  at  all." 

The  patient's  eyes  seemed  to  beckon  to  him.  The  doc 
tor  stooped  to  catch  the  same  faint  words. 

"The  money  —  the  twenty  thousand  dollars." 

"Where  is  this  money?  —  in  the  bank?" 

The  eyes  expressed  a  negative.  "Tell  her"  —  the 
whisper  was  growing  fainter  —  "the  twenty  thousand 
dollars  —  her  money"  —  his  eyes  wandered  about  the 
room. 

"You  have  placed  this  money  somewhere?"  —  Doctor 
James's  voice  was  toiling  like  a  siren's  to  conjure  the  secret 
from  the  man's  failing  intelligence  —  "Is  it  in  this  room?  " 

He  thought  he  saw  a  fluttering  assent  in  the  dimming 
eyes.  The  pulse  under  his  fingers  was  as  fine  and  small 
as  a  silk  thread. 


74  Rolling  Stones 

There  arose  in  Doctor  James's  brain  and  heart  the 
instincts  of  his  other  profession.  Promptly,  as  he  acted  in 
everything,  he  decided  to  learn  the  whereabouts  of  this 
money,  and  at  the  calculated  and  certain  cost  of  a  human 
life. 

Drawing  from  his  pocket  a  little  pad  of  prescription 
blanks,  he  scribbled  upon  one  of  them  a  formula  suited, 
according  to  the  best  practice,  to  the  needs  of  the  sufferer. 
Going  to  the  door  of  the  inner  room,  he  softly  called  the 
old  woman,  gave  her  the  prescription,  and  bade  her  take 
it  to  some  drug  store  and  fetch  the  medicine. 

When  she  had  gone,  muttering  to  herself,  the  doctor 
stepped  to  the  bedside  of  the  lady.  She  still  slept  soundly; 
her  pulse  was  a  little  stronger;  her  forehead  was  cool,  save 
where  the  inflammation  of  the  bruise  extended,  and  a 
slight  moisture  covered  it.  Unless  disturbed,  she  would 
yet  sleep  for  hours.  He  found  the  key  in  the  door,  and 
locked  it  after  him  when  he  returned. 

Doctor  James  looked  at  his  watch.  He  could  call  half  an 
hour  his  own,  since  before  that  time  the  old  woman  could 
scarcely  return  from  her  mission.  Then  he  sought  and 
found  water  in  a  pitcher  and  a  glass  tumbler.  Opening 
his  medicine  case  he  took  out  the  vial  containing  the 
nitroglycerine  —  "the  oil,"  as  his  brethren  of  the  brace- 
and-bit  term  it. 

One  drop  of  the  faint  yellow,  thickish  liquid  he  let  fall  in 
the  tumbler.  He  took  out  his  silver  hypodermic  syringe 
case,  and  screwed  the  needle  into  its  place.  Carefully 
measuring  each  modicum  of  water  in  the  graduated  glass 


The  Marionettes  75 

barrel  of  the  syringe,  he  diluted  the  one  drop  with  nearly 
half  a  tumbler  of  water. 

Two  hours  earlier  that  night  Doctor  James  had,  with 
that  syringe,  injected  the  undiluted  liquid  into  a  hole 
drilled  in  the  lock  of  a  safe,  and  had  destroyed,  with  one 
dull  explosion,  the  machinery  that  controlled  the  move 
ment  of  the  bolts.  He  now  purposed,  with  the  same 
means,  to  shiver  the  prime  machinery  of  a  human  being  — 
to  rend  its  heart  —  and  each  shock  was  for  the  sake  of  the 
money  to  follow. 

The  same  means,  but  in  a  different  guise.  Whereas, 
that  was  the  giant  in  its  rude,  primary  dynamic  strength, 
this  was  the  courtier,  whose  no  less  deadly  arms  were 
concealed  by  velvet  and  lace.  For  the  liquid  in  the  tum 
bler  and  in  the  syringe  that  the  physican  carefully  filled 
was  now  a  solution  of  glonoin,  the  most  powerful  heart 
stimulant  known  to  medical  science.  Two  ounces  had 
riven  the  solid  door  of  the  iron  safe;  with  one  fiftieth  part 
of  a  minim  he  was  now  about  to  still  forever  the  intricate 
mechanism  of  a  human  life. 

But  not  immediately.  It  was  not  so  intended.  First 
there  would  be  a  quick  increase  of  vitality;  a  powerful  im 
petus  given  to  every  organ  and  faculty.  The  heart  would 
respond  bravely  to  the  fatal  spur;  the  blood  in  the  veins 
return  more  rapidly  to  its  source. 

But,  as  Doctor  James  well  knew,  over-stimulation  in  this 
form  of  heart  disease  means  death,  as  sure  as  by  a  rifle 
shot.  When  the  clogged  arteries  should  suffer  congestion 
from  the  increased  flow  of  blood  pumped  into  them  by  the 


76  Rolling  Stones 

power  of  the  burglar's  "oil,"  they  would  rapidly  become 
"no  thoroughfare,"  and  the  fountain  of  life  would  cease  to 
flow. 

The  physician  bared  the  chest  of  the  unconscious  Chand 
ler.  Easily  and  skilfully  he  injected,  subcutaneously, 
the  contents  of  the  syringe  into  the  muscles  of  the  region 
over  the  heart.  True  to  his  neat  habits  in  both  profes 
sions,  he  next  carefully  dried  his  needle  and  re-inserted  the 
fine*  wire  that  threaded  it  when  not  in  use. 

In  three  minutes  Chandler  opened  his  eyes,  and  spoke, 
in  a  voice  faint  but  audible,  inquiring  who  attended  upon 
him.  Doctor  James  again  explained  his  presence  there. 

"Where  is  my  wife?"  asked  the  patient. 

"She  is  asleep  —  from  exhaustion  and  worry,"  said  the 
doctor.  "I  would  not  awaken  her,  unless " 

"It  isn't  —  necessary."  Chandler  spoke  with  spaces 
between  his  words  caused  by  his  short  breath  that  some 
demon  was  driving  too  fast.  "She  wouldn't  —  thank  you 
to  disturb  her  —  on  my  —  account." 

Doctor  James  drew  a  chair  to  the  bedside.  Conversation 
must  not  be  squandered. 

"A  few  minutes  ago,"  he  began,  in  the  grave,  candid 
tones  of  his  other  profession,  "you  were  trying  to  tell  me 
something  regarding  some  money.  I  do  not  seek  your 
confidence,  but  it  is  my  duty  to  advise  you  that  an:  *ety 
and  worry  will  work  against  your  recovery.  If  you  have 
any  communication  to  make  about  this  —  to  relieve  your 
mind  about  this  —  twenty  thousand  dollars,  I  think  was 
the  amount  you  mentioned  —  you  would  better  do  so." 


The  Marionettes  77 

Chandler  could  not  turn  his  head,  but  he  rolled  his  eyes 
in  the  direction  of  the  speaker. 

"Did  I  —  say  where  this  —  money  is?" 

"No,"  answered  the  physician.  "I  only  inferred,  from 
your  scarcely  intelligible  words,  that  you  felt  a  solicitude 
concerning  its  safety.  If  it  is  in  this  room 

Doctor  James  paused.  Did  he  only  seem  to  perceive  a 
flicker  of  understanding,  a  gleam  pf  suspicion  upon  the 
ironical  features  of  his  patient?  Had  he  seemed  too 
eager?  Had  he  said  too  much?  Chandler's  next  words 
restored  his  confidence. 

"Where  —  should  it  be,"  he  gasped,  "but  in  —  the 
safe  — there?" 

With  his  eyes  he  indicated  a  corner  of  the  room,  where 
now,  for  the  first  time,  the  doctor  perceived  a  small  iron 
safe,  half-concealed  by  the  trailing  end  of  a  window  cur 
tain. 

Rising,  he  took  the  sick  man's  wrist.  His  pulse  was 
beating  in  great  throbs,  with  ominous  intervals  between. 

"Lift  your  arm,"  said  Doctor  James. 

"You  know  —  I  can't  move,  Doctor." 

The  physician  stepped  swiftly  to  the  hall  door,  opened 
it,  and  listened.  All  was  still.  Without  further  circum 
vention  he  went  to  the  safe,  and  examined  it.  Of  a  prim 
itive  make  and  simple  design,  it  afforded  little  more 
security  than  protection  against  light-fingered  servants. 
To  his  skill  it  was  a  mere  toy,  a  thing  of  straw  and  paste 
board.  The  money  was  as  good  as  in  his  hands.  With 
his  clamps  he  could  draw  the  knob,  punch  the  tumblers 


78  Rolling  Stones 

and  open  the  door  in  two  minutes.  Perhaps,  in  another 
way,  he  might  open  it  in  one. 

Kneeling  upon  the  floor,  he  laid  his  ear  to  the  combina 
tion  plate,  and  slowly  turned  the  knob.  As  he  had  sur 
mised,  it  was  locked  at  only  a  "day  com."  —  upon  one 
number.  His  keen  ear  caught  the  faint  warning  click  as 
the  tumbler  was  disturbed;  he  used  the  clue  —  the  handle 
turned.  He  swung  the  door  wide  open. 

The  interior  of  the  safe  was  bare  —  not  even  a  scrap  of 
paper  rested  within  the  hollow  iron  cube. 

Doctor  James  rose  to  his  feet  and  walked  back  to  th« 
bed. 

A  thick  dew  had  formed  upon  the  dying  man's  brow,  but 
there  was  a  mocking,  grim  smile  on  his  lips  and  in  his  eyes. 

"I  never  —  saw  it  before,"  he  said,  painfully,  "medi 
cine  and  —  burglary  wedded!  Do  you  —  make  the — • 
combination  pay  —  dear  Doctor?" 

Than  that  situation  afforded,  there  was  never  a  more 
rigorous  test  of  Doctor  James's  greatness.  Trapped  by  the 
diabolic  humor  of  his  victim  into  a  position  both  ridicu 
lous  and  unsafe,  he  maintained  his  dignity  as  well  as  his 
presence  of  mind.  Taking  out  his  watch,  he  waited  for 
the  man  to  die. 

"You  were  —  just  a  shade  —  too — anxious  —  about 
that  money.  But  it  never  was  —  in  any  danger  —  from 
you,  dear  Doctor.  It's  safe.  Perfectly  safe.  It's  all  — 
in  the  hands  —  of  the  bookmakers.  Twenty  —  thousand 

—  Amy's  money.     I  played  it  at  the  races  —  lost  every 

—  cent  of  it.     I've  been  a  pretty  bad  boy,  Burglar—* 


The   Marionettes  79 

excuse  me  —  Doctor,  but  I've  been  a  square  sport.  I 
don't  think  —  I  ever  met  —  such  an  —  eighteen-carat 
rascal  as  you  are,  Doctor  —  excuse  me  —  Burglar,  in  all 
my  rounds.  Is  it  contrary  —  to  the  ethics  —  of  your 
—  gang,  Burglar,  to  give  a  victim  —  excuse  me  —  patient, 
a  drink  of  water?" 

Doctor  James  brought  him  a  drink.  He  could  scarcely 
ewallow  it.  The  reaction  from  the  powerful  drug  was 
coming  in  regular,  intensifying  waves.  But  his  moribund 
fancy  must  have  one  more  grating  fling. 

"Gambler  —  drunkard — spendthrift — I've  been  those, 
but  —  a  doctor-burglar! " 

The  physician  indulged  himself  to  but  one  reply  to  the 
other's  caustic  taunts.  Bending  low  to  catch  Chandler's 
fast  crystallizing  gaze,  he  pointed  to  the  sleeping  lady's 
door  with  a  gesture  so  stern  and  significant  that  the 
prostrate  man  half-lifted  his  head,  with  his  remaining 
strength,  to  see.  He  saw  nothing;  but  he  caught  the  cold 
words  of  the  doctor  —  the  last  sounds  he  was  to  hear: 

"I  never  yet  —  struck  a  woman." 

It  were  vain  to  attempt  to  con  such  men.  There  is  no 
curriculum  that  can  reckon  with  them  in  its  ken.  They  * 
are  offshoots  from  the  types  whereof  men  say,  "He  will  do 
this,"  or  "He  will  do  that."  We  only  know  that  they 
exist;  and  that  we  can  observe  them,  and  tell  one  another 
of  their  bare  performances,  as  children  watch  and  speak  of 
the  marionettes. 

Yet  it  were  a  droll  study  in  egoism  to  consider  these 
two  —  one  an  assassin  and  a  robber,  standing  above  his 


80  Rolling  Stones 

victim;  the  other  baser  in  his  offences,  if  a  lesser  law 
breaker,  lying,  abhorred,  in  the  house  of  the  wife  he  had 
persecuted,  spoiled,  and  smitten,  one  a  tiger,  the  other 
a  dog- wolf  —  to  consider  each  of  them  sickening  at  the 
foulness  of  the  other;  and  each  flourishing  out  of  the  mire 
of  his  manifest  guilt  his  own  immaculate  standard  —  of 
conduct,  if  not  of  honor. 

The  one  retort  of  Doctor  James  must  have  struck  home 
to  the  other's  remaining  shreds  of  shame  and  manhood,  for 
it  proved  the  coup  de  grace.  A  deep  blush  suffused  his 
face  —  an  ignominious  rosa  mortis;  the  respiration  ceased, 
and,  with  scarcely  a  tremor,  Chandler  expired. 

Close  following  upon  his  last  breath  came  the  negress, 
bringing  the  medicine.  With  a  hand  gently  pressing 
upon  the  closed  eyelids,  Doctor  James  told  her  of  the  end. 
Not  grief,  but  a  hereditary  rapprochement  with  death  in 
the  abstract,  moved  her  to  a  dismal,  watery  snuffling, 
accompanied  by  her  usual  jeremiad. 

"Dar  now!  It's  in  de  Lawd's  hands.  He  am  de  jedge 
ob  de  transgressor,  and  de  suppo't  of  dem  in  distress.  He 
gwine  hab  suppo't  us  now.  Cindy  done  paid  out  de  last 
quarter  fer  dis  bottle  of  physic,  and  it  nebber  come  to  no 
use." 

"Do  I  understand,"  asked  Doctor  James,  "that  Mrs. 
Chandler  has  no  money?" 

"Money,  suh?  You  know  what  make  Miss  Amy  fall 
down,  and  so  weak?  Stahvation,  suh.  Nothin'  to  eat  in 
dis  house  but  some  crumbly  crackers  in  three  days.  Dat 
angel  sell  her  finger  rings  and  watch  mont's  ago.  Dis 


\ 


Here  we  have  Kate  and  John. 
Will  Kate  fight  John  or  rail 
at  him? 

Oh,  no!  for  Kate  loves  John. 
He  bought  her  a  nice  ring. 

From  The  Rolling  Stone 


Did  he  go  up? 

Oh,  yes!  he  did  go  up, 


From  The  Rolling  Stone 


The  Marionettes  81 

fine  house,  suh,  wid  de  red  cyarpets  and  shiny  bureaus,  it's 
all  hired;  and  de  man  talkin'  scan'lous  about  de  rent. 
Dat  debble  —  'scuse  me,  Lawd  —  he  done  in  Yo'  hands 
fer  jedgment,  now  —  he  made  way  wid  everything." 

The  physician's  silence  encouraged  her  to  continue. 
The  history  that  he  gleaned  from  Cindy's  disordered  mono 
logue  was  an  old  one,  of  illusion,  wilfulness,  disaster, 
cruelty  and  pride.  Standing  out  from  the  blurred  pano 
rama  of  her  gabble  were  little  clear  pictures  —  an  ideal 
home  in  the  far  South;  a  quickly  repented  marriage;  an 
unhappy  season,  full  of  wrongs  and  abuse,  and,  of  late, 
an  inheritance  of  money  that  promised  deliverance;  its 
seizure  and  waste  by  the  dog-wolf  during  a  two  months' 
absence,  and  his  return  in  the  midst  of  a  scandalous  ca 
rouse.  Unobtruded,  but  visible  between  every  line,  ran 
a  pure  white  thread  through  the  smudged  warp  of  the 
story  —  the  simple,  all-enduring,  sublime  love  of  the  old 
negress,  following  her  mistress  unswervingly  through 
everything  to  the  end. 

When  at  last  she  paused,  the  physician  spoke,  asking  if 
the  house  contained  whiskey  or  liquor  of  any  sort.  There 
was,  the  old  woman  informed  him,  half  a  bottle  of  brandy 
left  in  the  sideboard  by  the  dog-wolf. 

"Prepare  a  toddy  as  I  told  you,"  said  Doctor  James. 
"Wake  your  mistress;  have  her  drink  it,  and  tell  her  what 
has  happened." 

Some  ten  minutes  afterward,  Mrs.  Chandler  entered, 
supported  by  old  Cindy's  arm.  She  appeared  to  be  a 
little  stronger  since  her  sleep  and  the  stimulant  she  had 


8£  Rolling  Stones 

taken.    Doctor  James  had  covered,  with  a  sheet,  the  form 
upon  the  bed. 

The  lady  turned  her  mournful  eyes  once,  with  a  half- 
frightened  look,  toward  it,  and  pressed  closer  to  her  loyal 
protector.  Her  eyes  were  dry  and  bright.  Sorrow  seemed 
to  have  done  its  utmost  with  her.  The  fount  of  tears  was 
dried;  feeling  itself  paralyzed. 

Doctor  James  was  standing  near  the  table,  his 
overcoat  donned,  his  hat  and  medicine  case  in  his  hand. 
His  face  was  calm  and  impassive  —  practice  had  inured 
him  to  the  sight  of  human  suffering.  His  lambent 
brown  eyes  alone  expressed  a  discreet  professional  sym 
pathy. 

He  spoke  kindly  and  briefly,  stating  that,  as  the  hour 
was  late,  and  assistance,  no  doubt,  difficult  to  procure,  he 
would  himself  send  the  proper  persons  to  attend  to  the 
necessary  finalities. 

"One  matter,  in  conclusion,"  said  the  doctor,  pointing 
to  the  safe  with  its  still  wide-open  door.  "Your  husband, 
Mrs.  Chandler,  toward  the  end,  felt  that  he  could  not  live; 
and  directed  me  to  open  that  safe,  giving  me  the  number 
upon  which  the  combination  is  set.  In  case  you  may  need 
to  use  it,  you  will  remember  that  the  number  is  forty-one. 
Turn  several  times  to  the  right;  then  to  the  left  once;  stop 
at  forty-one.  He  would  not  permit  me  to  waken  you, 
though  he  knew  the  end  was  near. 

"  In  that  safe  he  said  he  had  placed  a  sum  of  money  — 
not  large  —  but  enough  to  enable  you  to  carry  out  his 
last  request.  That  was  that  you  should  return  to  your 


The  Marionettes  83 

old  home,  and,  in  after  days,  when  time  shall  have  made 
it  easier,  forgive  his  many  sins  against  you." 

He  pointed  to  the  table,  where  lay  an  orderly  pile  of 
banknotes,  surmounted  by  two  stacks  of  gold  coins. 

"The  money  is  there  —  as  he  described  it  —  eight 
hundred  and  thirty  dollars.  I  beg  to  leave  my  card  with 
you,  in  case  I  can  be  of  any  service  later  on." 

So,  he  had  thought  of  her  —  and  kindly  —  at  the  last ! 
So  late !  And  yet  the  lie  fanned  into  life  one  last  spark  of 
tenderness  where  she  had  thought  all  was  turned  to  ashes 
and  dust.  She  cried  aloud  "Rob!  Rob!"  She  turned, 
and,  upon  the  ready  bosom  of  her  true  servitor,  diluted 
her  grief  in  relieving  tears.  It  is  well  to  think,  also,  that 
in  the  years  to  follow,  the  murderer's  falsehood  shone  like 
a  little  star  above  the  grave  of  love,  comforting  her,  and 
gaining  the  forgiveness  that  is  good  in  itself,  whether  asked 
for  or  no. 

Hushed  and  soothed  upon  the  dark  bosom,  like  a  child, 
by  a  crooning,  babbling  sympathy,  at  last  she  raised  her 
head  —  but  the  doctor  was  gone. 


THE  MARQUIS  AND  MISS  SALLY 

[Originally  published  in  Everybody's  Magazine,  June,  1903.] 

WITHOUT  knowing  it,  Old  Bill  Bascom  had  the  honor 
of  being  overtaken  by  fate  the  same  day  with  the  Marquis 
of  Borodale. 

The  Marquis  lived  in  Regent  Square,  London.  Old 
Bill  lived  on  Limping  Doe  Creek,  Hardeman  County, 
Texas.  The  cataclysm  that  engulfed  the  Marquis  took 
the  form  of  a  bursting  bubble  known  as  the  Central  and 
South  American  Mahogany  and  Caoutchouc  Monopoly. 
Old  Bill's  Nemesis  was  in  the  no  less  perilous  shape  of  a 
band  of  civilized  Indian  cattle  thieves  from  the  Territory 
who  ran  off  his  entire  herd  of  four  hundred  head,  and  shot 
old  Bill  dead  as  he  trailed  after  them.  To  even  up  the 
consequences  of  the  two  catastrophes,  the  Marquis,  as 
soon  as  he  found  that  all  he  possessed  would  pay  only 
fifteen  shillings  on  the  pound  of  his  indebtedness,  shot 
himself. 

Old  Bill  left  a  family  of  six  motherless  sons  and  daugh 
ters,  who  found  themselves  without  even  a  red  steer  left 
to  eat,  or  a  red  cent  to  buy  one  with. 

The  Marquis  left  one  son,  a  young  man,  who  had  come 
to  the  States  and  established  a  large  and  well-stocked 
ranch  in  the  Panhandle  of  Texas.  When  this  young  man 

84 


The  Marquis  and  Miss  Sally  85 

learned  the  news  he  mounted  his  pony  and  rode  to  town. 
There  he  placed  everything  he  owned  except  his  horse, 
saddle,  Winchester,  and  fifteen  dollars  in  his  pockets,  in 
the  hands  of  his  lawyers,  with  instructions  to  sell  and  for 
ward  the  proceeds  to  London  to  be  applied  upon  the  pay 
ment  of  his  father's  debts.  Then  he  mounted  his  pony 
and  rode  southward. 

One  day,  arriving  about  the  same  time,  but  by  different 
trails,  two  young  chaps  rode  up  to  the  Diamond-Cross 
ranch,  on  the  Little  Piedra,  and  asked  for  work.  Both 
were  dressed  neatly  and  sprucely  in  cowboy  costume. 
One  was  a  straight-set  fellow,  with  delicate,  handsome 
features,  short,  brown  hair,  and  smooth  face,  sunburned  to 
a  golden  brown.  The  other  applicant  was  stouter  and 
broad-shouldered,  with  fresh,  red  complexion,  somewhat 
freckled,  reddish,  curling  hair,  and  a  rather  plain  face, 
made  attractive  by  laughing  eyes  and  a  pleasant  mouth. 

The  superintendent  of  the  Diamond-Cross  was  of  the 
opinion  that  he  could  give  them  work.  In  fact,  word  had 
reached  him  that  morning  that  the  camp  cook  —  a  most 
important  member  of  the  outfit  —  had  straddled  his 
broncho  and  departed,  being  unable  to  withstand  the  fire 
of  fun  and  practical  jokes  of  which  he  was,  ex  officio,  the 
legitimate  target. 

"Can  either  of  you  cook?"  asked  the  superintendent. 

"I  can,"  said  the  reddish-haired  fellow,  promptly. 
"I've  cooked  in  camp  quite  a  lot.  I'm  willing  to  take  the 
job  until  you've  got  something  else  to  offer." 

"Now,  that's  the  way  I  like  to  hear  a  man  talk,"  said 


86  Rolling  Stones 

the  superintendent,  approvingly.  "I'll  give  you  a  note 
to  Saunders,  and  he'll  put  you  to  work." 

Thus  the  names  of  John  Bascom  and  Charles  Norwood 
were  added  to  the  pay-roll  of  the  Diamond-Cross.  The 
two  left  for  the  round-up  camp  immediately  after  dinner. 
Their  directions  were  simple,  but  sufficient:  "Keep  down 
the  arroyo  for  fifteen  miles  till  you  get  there."  Both 
being  strangers  from  afar,  young,  spirited,  and  thus  thrown 
together  by  chance  for  a  long  ride,  it  is  likely  that  the 
comradeship  that  afterward  existed  so  strongly  between 
them  began  that  afternoon  as  they  meandered  along  the 
little  valley  of  the  Canada  Verda. 

They  reached  their  destination  just  after  sunset.  The 
main  camp  of  the  round-up  was  comfortably  located  on 
the  bank  of  a  long  water-hole,  under  a  fine  mott  of  tim 
ber.  A  number  of  small  A  tents  pitched  upon  grassy 
spots  and  the  big  wall  tent  for  provisions  showed  that  the 
camp  was  intended  to  be  occupied  for  a  considerable  length 
of  time. 

The  round-up  had  ridden  in  but  a  few  moments  before, 
hungry  and  tired,  to  a  supperless  camp.  The  boys  were 
engaged  in  an  emulous  display  of  anathemas  supposed  to 
fit  the  case  of  the  absconding  cook.  While  they  were 
unsaddling  and  hobbling  their  ponies,  the  newcomers  rode 
in  and  inquired  for  Pink  Saunders.  The  boss  of  the 
round-up  came  forth  and  was  given  the  superintendent's 
note. 

Pink  Saunders,  though  a  boss  during  working  hours, 
was  a  humorist  in  camp,  where  everybody,  from  cook  to 


The  Marquis  and  Miss  Sally  87 

superintendent,  is  equal.  After  reading  the  note  he  waved 
his  hand  toward  the  camp  and  shouted,  ceremoniously,  at 
the  top  of  his  voice,  "Gentlemen,  allow  me  to  present  to 
you  the  Marquis  and  Miss  Sally." 

At  the  words  both  the  new  arrivals  betrayed  confusion. 
The  newly  employed  cook  started,  with  a  surprised  look 
on  his  face,  but,  immediately  recollecting  that  "Miss 
Sally"  is  the  generic  name  for  the  male  cook  in  every  west 
Texas  cow  camp,  he  recovered  his  composure  with  a  grin 
at  his  own  expense. 

His  companion  showed  little  less  discomposure,  even 
turning  angrily,  with  a  bitten  lip,  and  reaching  for  his 
saddle  pommel,  as  if  to  remount  his  pony;  but  "Miss 
Sally"  touched  his  arm  and  said,  laughingly,  "Come  nov, 
Marquis;  that  was  quite  a  compliment  from  Saunders. 
It's  that  distinguished  air  of  yours  and  aristocratic  nose 
that  made  him  call  you  that." 

He  began  to  unsaddle,  and  the  Marquis,  restored  to 
equanimity,  followed  his  example.  Rolling  up  his 
sleeves,  Miss  Sally  sprang  for  the  grub  wagon,  shouting: 

"I'm  the  new  cook  b 'thunder!  Some  of  you  chaps 
rustle  a  little  wood  for  a  fire,  and  I'll  guarantee  you  a  hot 
square  meal  inside  of  thirty  minutes."  Miss  Sally's 
energy  and  good-humor,  as  he  ransacked  the  grub  wagon 
for  coffee,  flour,  and  bacon,  won  the  good  opinion  of  the 
camp  instantly. 

And  also,  in  days  following,  the  Marquis,  after  becom 
ing  better  acquainted,  proved  to  be  a  cheerful,  pleasant 
fellow,  always  a  little  reserved,  and  taking  no  part  in  the 


88  Rolling  Stones 

<M^%. 

rough  camp  frolics;  but  the  boys  gradually  came  to 
respect  this  reserve  —  which  fitted  the  title  Saunders  had 
given  him  —  and  even  to  like  him  for  it.  Saunders  had 
assigned  him  to  a  place  holding  the  herd  during  the  cut 
tings.  He  proved  to  be  a  skilful  rider  and  as  good  with 
the  lariat  or  in  the  branding  pen  as  most  of  them. 

The  Marquis  and  Miss  Sally  grew  to  be  quite  close 
comrades.  After  supper  was  over,  and  everything  cleaned 
up,  you  would  generally  find  them  together,  Miss  Sally 
smoking  his  brier-root  pipe,  and  the  Marquis  plaiting 
a  quirt  or  scraping  rawhide  for  a  new  pair  of  hobbles. 

The  superintendent  did  not  forget  his  promise  to  keep 
an  eye  on  the  cook.  Several  times,  when  visiting  the  camp, 
he  held  long  talks  with  him.  He  seemed  to  have  taken  a 
fancy  to  Miss  Sally.  One  afternoon  he  rode  up,  on  his 
way  back  to  the  ranch  from  a  tour  of  the  camps,  and  said 
to  him: 

"There'll  be  a  man  here  in  the  morning  to  take  your 
place.  As  soon  as  he  shows  up  you  come  to  the  ranch. 
I  want  you  to  take  charge  of  the  ranch  accounts  and  cor 
respondence.  I  want  somebody  that  I  can  depend  upon 
to  keep  things  straight  when  I'm  away.  The  wages  '11  be 
all  right.  The  Diamond-Cross  '11  hold  its  end  up  with  a 
man  who'll  look  after  its  interests." 

"All  right,"  said  Miss  Sally,  as  quietly  as  if  he  had 
expected  the  notice  all  along.  "Any  objections  to  my 
bringing  my  wife  down  to  the  ranch?  " 

"You  married?"  said  the  superintendent,  frowning  a 
little.  "You  didn't  mention  it  when  we  were  talking." 


The  Marquis  and  Miss  Sally  89 

"Because  I'm  not,"  said  the  cook.  "But  I'd  like  to  be. 
Thought  I'd  wait  till  I  got  a  job  under  roof.  I  couldn't 
ask  her  to  live  in  a  cow  camp." 

"Right,"  agreed  the  superintendent.  "A  camp  isn't 
quite  the  place  for  a  married  man  —  but  —  well,  there's 
plenty  of  room  at  the  house,  and  if  you  suit  us  as  well  as  I 
think  you  will  you  can  afford  it.  You  write  to  her  to 
come  on." 

"All  right,"  said  Miss  Sally  again,  "I'll  ride  in  as  soon 
as  I  am  relieved  to-morrow." 

It  was  a  rather  chilly  night,  and  after  supper  the  cow- 
punchers  were  lounging  about  a  big  fire  of  dried  mesquite 
chunks. 

Their  usual  exchange  of  jokes  and  repartee  had  dwin 
dled  amost  to  silence,  but  silence  in  a  cow  camp  generally 
betokens  the  brewing  of  mischief. 

Miss  Sally  and  the  Marquis  were  seated  upon  a  log, 
discussing  the  relative  merits  of  the  lengthened  or  short 
ened  stirrup  in  long-distance  riding.  The  Marquis  arose 
presently  and  went  to  a  tree  near  by  to  examine  some  strips 
of  rawhide  he  was  seasoning  for  making  a  lariat.  Just 
as  he  left  a  little  puff  of  wind  blew  some  scraps  of  tobacco 
from  a  cigarette  that  Dry-Creek  Smithers  was  rolling,  into 
Miss  Sally's  eyes.  While  the  cook  was  rubbing  at  them, 
with  tears  flowing,  "Phonograph"  Davis  —  so  called  on 
account  of  his  strident  voice  —  arose  and  began  a  speech. 

"Fellers  and  citizens!  I  desire  to  perpound  a  inter 
rogatory.  What  is  the  most  grievious  spectacle  what 
the  human  mind  can  contemplate?" 


90  Rolling  Stones 

A  volley  of  answers  responded  to  his  question. 

"A  busted  flush!" 

"A  Maverick  when  you  ain't  got  your  branding  iron!" 

"Yourself!" 

"The  hole  in  the  end  of  some  other  feller's  gun!" 

"Shet  up,  you  ignoramuses,"  said  old  Taller,  the  fat 
cow-puncher.  "Phony  knows  what  it  is.  He's  waitin' 
for  to  tell  us." 

"No,  fellers  and  citizens,"  continued  Phonograph. 
"Them  spectacles  you've  e-numerated  air  shore  grievious, 
and  way  up  yonder  close  to  the  so-lution,  but  they  ain't 
it.  The  most  grievious  spectacle  air  that"  —  he  pointed 
to  Miss  Sally,  who  was  still  rubbing  his  streaming  eyes  — 
"a  trustin'  and  a  in-veegled  female  a-weepin'  tears  on 
account  of  her  heart  bein'  busted  by  a  false  deceiver.  Air 
we  men  or  air  we  catamounts  to  gaze  upon  the  blightin' 
of  our  Miss  Sally's  affections  by  a  a-risto-crat,  which  has 
come  among  us  with  his  superior  beauty  and  his  glitterin' 
title  to  give  the  weeps  to  the  lovely  critter  we  air  bound  to 
pertect?  Air  we  goin'  to  act  like  men,  or  air  we  goin'  to 
keep  on  eatin'  soggy  chuck  from  her  cryin'  so  plentiful 
over  the  bread-pan?" 

"It's  a  gallopin'  shame,"  said  Dry-Creek,  with  a  sniffle. 
'It  ain't  human.  I've  noticed  the  varmint  a-palaverin' 
round  her  frequent.  And  him  a  Marquis!  Ain't  that  a 
title,  Phony? 

"It's  somethin'  like  a  king,"  the  Brushy  Creek  Kid 
hastened  to  explain,  "only  lower  in  the  deck.  Guess  it 
comes  in  between  the  Jack  and  the  ten-spot." 


The  Marquis  and  Miss  Sally  91 

•'Don't  miscontruct  me,"  went  on  Phonograph,  "as 
under valuatin'  the  a-ristocrats.  Some  of  'em  air  proper 
people  and  can  travel  right  along  with  the  Watson  boys. 
I've  herded  some  with  'em  myself.  I've  viewed  the  ele 
phant  with  the  Mayor  of  Fort  Worth,  and  I've  listened  'to 
the  owl  with  the  gen'ral  passenger  agent  of  the  Katy,  and 
they  can  keep  up  with  the  percession  from  where  you  laid 
the  chunk.  But  when  a  Marquis  monkeys  with  the  inno 
cent  affections  of  a  cook-lady,  may  I  inquire  what  the 
case  seems  to  call  for?" 

"The  leathers,"  shouted  Dry-Creek  Smithers. 

"You  hcarn  'er,  Charity!"  was  the  Kid's  form  of  cor- 
roboration. 

"We've  got  your  company,"  assented  the  cow-punchers, 
in  chorus. 

Before  the  Marquis  realized  their  intention,  two  of  them 
seized  him  by  each  arm  and  led  him  up  to  the  log.  Phono 
graph  Davis,  self-appointed  to  carry  out  the  sentence, 
stood  ready,  with  a  pair  of  stout  leather  leggings  in  his 
hands. 

It  was  the  first  time  they  had  ever  laid  hands  on  the 
Marquis  during  their  somewhat  rude  sports. 

"What  are  you  up  to?"  he  asked,  indignantly,  with 
flashing  eyes 

"Go  easy,  Marquis,"  whispered  Rube  Fellows,  one  of 
the  boys  that  held  him.  "It's  all  in  fun.  Take  it  good- 
natured  and  they'll  let  you  off  light.  They're  only  goin' 
to  stretch  you  over  the  log  and  tan  you  eight  or  ten  times 
with  the  leggin's.  'Twon't  hurt  much." 


92  Rolling  Stones 

The  Marquis,  with  an  exclamation  of  anger,  his  white 
teeth  gleaming,  suddenly  exhibited  a  surprising  strength. 
He  wrenched  with  his  arms  so  violently  that  the  four 
men  were  swayed  and  dragged  many  yards  from  the  log. 
A  cry  of  anger  escaped  him,  and  then  Miss  Sally,  his  eyes 
cleared  of  the  tobacco,  saw,  and  he  immediately  mixed 
with  the  struggling  group. 

But  at  that  moment  a  loud  "Hallo!"  rang  in  their  ears, 
and  a  buckboard  drawn  by  a  team  of  galloping  mustangs 
spun  into  the  campfire's  circle  of  light.  Every  man 
turned  to  look,  and  what  they  saw  drove  from  their 
minds  all  thoughts  of  carrying  out  Phonograph  Davis's 
rather  time-worn  contribution  to  the  evening's  amuse 
ment.  Bigger  game  than  the  Marquis  was  at  hand,  and 
his  captors  released  him  and  stood  staring  at  the  approach" 
ing  victim. 

The  buckboard  and  team  belonged  to  Sam  Holly,  a 
cattleman  from  the  Big  Muddy.  Sam  was  driving,  and 
with  him  was  a  stout,  smooth-faced  man,  wearing  a  frock 
coat  and  a  high  silk  hat.  That  was  the  county  judge,  Mr. 
Dave  Hackett,  candidate  for  reelection.  Sam  was  escort 
ing  him  about  the  county,  among  the  camps,  to  shake  up 
the  sovereign  voters. 

The  men  got  out,  hitched  the  team  to  a  mesquite,  and 
walked  toward  the  fire. 

Instantly  every  man  in  camp,  except  the  Marquis, 
Miss  Sally,  and  Pink  Saunders,  who  had  to  play  host, 
uttered  a  frightful  yell  of  assumed  terror  and  fled  on  all 
sides  into  the  darkness. 


The  Marquis  and  Miss  Sally  93 

** Heavens  alive!"  exclaimed  Hackett,  "are  we  as 
ugly  as  that?  How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Saunders?  Glad 
to  see  you  again.  What  are  you  doing  to  my  hat, 
Holly?" 

"I  was  afraid  of  this  hat,"  said  Sam  Holly,  medita 
tively.  He  had  taken  the  hat  from  Hackett's  head  and 
was  holding  it  in  his  hand,  looking  dubiously  around  at  the 
shadows  beyond  the  firelight  where  now  absolute  stillness 
reigned.  "What  do  you  think,  Saunders?" 

Pink  grinned. 

"Better  elevate  it  some,"  Jie-said,  in  the  tone  of  one 
giving^jdisi»terested  advice.  "The  light  ain't  none  too 
good.  I  wouldn't  want  it  on  my  head." 

Holly  stepped  upon  the  hub  of  a  hind  wheel  of  the 
grub  wagon  and  hung  the  hat  upon  a  limb  of  a  live-oak. 
Scarcely  had  his  foot  touched  the  ground  when  the  crash 
of  a  dozen  six-shooters  split  the  air,j  and  the  hat  fell  to 
the  ground  riddled  with  bullets. 

:Arhissing  noise  was  heard  as  if  from  a  score  of  rattle 
snakes,  and  now  the  cow-punchers  emerged  on  all  sides 
from  the  darkness,  stepping  high,  with  ludicrously  exag 
gerated  caution,  and  "hist" -ing  to  one  another  to  ob 
serve  the  utmost  prudence  in  approaching.  They  formed 
a  solemn,  wide  circle  about  the  hat,  gazing  at  it  in  mani 
fest  alarm,  and  seized  every  few  moments  by  little  stam 
pedes  of  panicky  flight. 

"It's  the  varmint,"  said  one  in  a^red  tones>  "that 
flits  up  and  down  in  the  low  grounds  at  night,  saying, 
'Willie-wallo!" 


94  Rolling  Stones 

''It's  the  venemous  Kypootum,"  proclaimed  another. 
"It  stings  after  it's  dead,  and  hollers  after  it's  buried." 

"It's  the  chief  of  the  hairy  tribe,"  said  Phonograph 
Davis.  "But  it's  stone  dead,  now,  boys." 

"Don't  you  believe  it,"  demurred  Dry-Creek.  "It's 
only  'possumin'.'  It's  the  dreaded  Highgollacum  f antod 
from  the  forest.  There's  only  one  way  to  destroy  its 
life." 

He  led  forward  Old  Taller,  the  240-pound  cow-puncher. 
Old  Taller  placed  the  hat  upright  on  the  ground  and  sol 
emnly  sat  upon  it,  crushing  it  as  flat  as  a  pancake. 

Hackett  had  viewed  these  proceedings  with  wide-open 
eyes.  Sam  Holly  saw  that  his  anger  was  rising  and  said 
to  him:, 

"Here's  where  you  win  or  lose,  Judge.  There  are  sixty 
votes  on  the  Diamond  Cross.  The  boys  are  trying  your 
mettle.  Take  it  as  a  joke,  and  I  don't  think  you'll  regret 
it."  And  Hackett  saw  the  point  and  rose  to  the  occasion. 

Advancing  to  where  the  slayers  of  the  wild  beast  were 
standing  above  its  remains  and  declaring  it  to  be  at  last 
defunct,  he  said,  with  deep  earnestness : 

"  Boys,  I  must  thank  you  for  this  gallant  rescue.  While 
driving  through  the  arroyo  that  cruel  monster  that  you 
have  so  fearlessly  and  repeatedly  slaughtered  sprang  upon 
us  from  the  tree  tops.  To  you  I  shall  consider  that  I  owe 
my  life,  and  also,  I  hope,  reelection  to  the  office  for  which 
I  am  again  a  candidate.  Allow  me  to  hand  you  my  card." 

The  cow-punchers,  always  so  sober-faced  while  engaged 
in  their  monkey-shines,  relaxed  into  a  grin  of  approval. 


The  Marquis  and  Miss  Sally  95 

But  Phonograph  Davis,  his  appetite  for  fun  not  yet 
appeased,  had  something  more  up  his  sleeve. 

"Pardner,"  he  'said,  addressing  Hackett  with  grave 
severity,  "many  a  camp  would  be  down  on  you  for  turnin' 
loose  a  pernicious  varmint  like  that  in  it;  but,  bein'  as  we 
all  escaped  without  loss  of  life,  we'll  overlook  it.  You 
can  play  square  with  us  if  you'll  do  it." 

"How's  that?"  asket  Hackett  suspiciously. 

"You're  authorized  to  perform  the  sacred  rights  and 
lefts  of  mattermony,  air  you  not?" 

"Well,  yes,"  replied  Hackett.  "A  marriage  ceremony 
conducted  by  me  would  be  legal." 

"A  wrong  air  to  be  righted  in  this  here  camp,"  said 
Phonography,  virtuously.  "A  a-ristocrat  have  slighted 
a  'umble  but  beautchoos  female  wat's  pinin'  for  his  af 
fections.  It's  the  jooty  of  the  camp  to  drag  forth  the 
haughty  descendant  of  a  hundred  —  or  maybe  a  hundred 
and  twenty-five  —  earls,  even  so  at  the  pint  of  a  lariat, 
and  jine  him  to  the  weepin'  lady.  Fellows !  round  up  Miss 
Sally  and  the  Marquis,  there's  goin'  to  be  a  weddin'." 

This  whim  of  Phonograph's  was  received  with  whoops 
of  appreciation.  The  cow-punchers  started  to  apprehend 
the  principals  of  the  proposed  ceremony. 

"Kindly  prompt  me,"  said  Hackett,  wiping  his  fore 
head,  though  the  night  was  cool,  "how  far  this  thing  is  to 
be  carried.  And  might  I  expect  any  further  portions  of 
my  raiment  to  be  mistaken  for  wild  animals  and  killed?" 

"The  boys  are  livelier  than  usual  to-night,"  said  Saun- 
ders.  "The  ones  they  are  talking  about  marrying  are 


96  Rolling  Stones 

two  of  the  boys  —  a  herd  rider  and  the  cook.  It's  an 
other  joke.  You  and  Sam  will  have  to  sleep  here  to-night 
anyway;  p'rhaps  you'd  better  see  'em  through  with  it. 
Maybe  they'll  quiet  down  after  that." 

The  matchmakers  found  Miss  Sally  seated  on  the 
tongue  of  the  grub  wagon,  calmly  smoking  his  pipe.  The 
Marquis  was  leaning  idly  against  one  of  the  trees  under 
which  the  supply  tent  was  pitched. 

Into  this  tent  they  were  both  hustled,  and  Phonograph,, 
as  master  of  ceremonies,  gave  orders  for  the  preparations. 

"You,  Dry-Creek  and  Jimmy,  and  Ben  and  Taller  — 
hump  yourselves  to  the  wildwood  and  rustle  flowers  for  the 
blow-out  —  mesquite  '11  do  —  and  get  that  Spanish  dagger 
blossom  at  the  corner  of  the  horse  corral  for  the  bride  to 
pack.  You,  Limpy,  get  out  that  red  and  yaller  blanket  of 
your'n  for  Miss  Sally's  skyirt.  Marquis,  you'll  do  'thout 
fixin';  nobody  don't  ever  look  at  the  groom." 

During  their  absurd  preparation,  the  two  principals 
were  left  alone  for  a  few  moments  in  the  tent.  The  Mar 
quis  suddenly  showed  wild  perturbation. 

"This  foolishness  must  not  go  on,"  he  said,  turning  to 
'Sally  a  face  white  in  the  light  of  the  lantern  hanging 

the  ridge-pole. 

"Why  not?"  said  the  cook,  with  an  amused  smile. 
"It's  fun  for  the  boys;  and  they've  always  let  you  off 
pretty  light  in  their  frolics.  I  don't  mind  it." 

"But  you  don't  understand,"  persisted  the  Marquis, 
pleadingly.  "That  man  is  county  judge,  and  his  acts  are 
binding.  I  can't  —  oh,  you  don't  know " 


T 


See  Tom  and  the  dog. 
Will  Tom  hurt  the  dog? 
Oh,  no!    Tom  will  not  hurt 

the  dog. 
Tom  will  give  the   dog  a  bite 


to  eat. 

From  The  Rolling  Stone 


See  him  do  it. 

Can  John  find  the  ball? 
Is  it  in  the  cup? 
No,  it  is  not  in  it; 
Neither  is  John. 


From  The  Rolling  Stone 


The  Marquis  and  Miss  Sally  97 

The  cook  stepped  forward  and  took  the  Marquis's 
hands. 

"Sally  Bascom,"  he  said,  "I  KNOW!" 

"You  know!"  faltered  the  Marquis,  trembling.  "And 
you  —  want  to " 

"  More  than  I  ever  wanted  anything.  Will  you  —  here 
come  the  boys!" 

TIie  cow-punchers  crowded  in,  laden  with  armfuls  of 
decorations. 

"Perfifious  coyote!"  said  Phonograph,  sternly,  ad 
dressing  the  Marquis.  "Air  you  willing  to  patch  up  the 
damage  you've  did  this  ere  slab-sided  but  trustin'  bunch 
o'  calico  by  single-f  ootin'  easy  to  the  altar,  or  will  we  have 
to  rope  ye,  and  drag  you  thar?" 

The  Marquis  pushed  back  his  hat,  and  leaned  jauntily 
against  some  high-piled  sacks  of  beans.  His  cheeks  were 
flushed,  and  his  eyes  were  shining. 

"Go  on  with  the  rat  killinY'  said  he. 

A  little  while  after  a  procession  approached  the  tree 
under  which  Hackett,  Holly,  and  Saunders  were  sitting 
smoking. 

Limpy  Walker  was  in  the  lead,  extracting  a  doleful  tune 
from  his  concertina.  Next  came  the  bride  and  groom. 
The  cook  wore  the  gorgeous  Navajo  blanket  tied  around 
his  waist  and  carried  in  one  hand  the  waxen-white  Spanish 
dagger  blossom  as  large  as  a  peck-measure  and  weighing 
fifteen  pounds.  His  hat  was  ornamented  with  mesquite 
branches  and  yellow  ratama  blooms.  A  resurrected  mos- 
auito  bar  served  as  a  veil.  After  them  stumbled  Phono- 


98  Rolling  Stones 

graph  Davis,  in  the  character  of  the  bride's  father,  weep 
ing  into  a  saddle  blanket  with  sobs  that  could  be  heard  a 
mile  away.  The  cow-punchers  followed  by  twos,  loudly 
commenting  upon  the  bride's  appearance,  in  a  supposed 
imitation  of  the  audiences  at  fashionable  weddings. 

Hackett  rose  as  the  procession  halted  before  him,  and 
after  a  little  lecture  upon  matrimony,  asked: 

"What  are  your  names?" 

"Sally  and  Charles,"  answered  the  cook. 

"Join  hands,  Charles  and  Sally." 

Perhaps  there  never  was  a  stranger  wedding.  For, 
wedding  it  was,  though  only  two  of  those  present  knew  it. 

When  the  ceremony  was  over,  the  cow-punchers  gave 
one  yell  of  congratulation  and  immediately  abandoned 
their  foolery  for  the  night.  Blankets  were  unrolled  and 
sleep  became  the  paramount  question. 

The  cook  (divested  of  his  decorations)  and  the  Marquis 
lingered  for  a  moment  in  the  shadow  of  the  grub  wagon. 
The  Marquis  leaned  her  head  against  his  shoulder. 

"I  didn't  know  what  else  to  do,"  she  was  saying. 
"Father  was  gone,  and  we  kids  had  to  rustle.  I  had 
helped  him  so  much  with  the  cattle  that  I  thought  I'd 
turn  cowboy.  There  wasn't  anything  else  I  could  make 
a  living  at.  I  wasn't  much  stuck  on  it  though,  after  I  got 
here,  and  I'd  have  left  only " 

"Only  what?" 

"You  know.  Tell  me  something.  When  did  you  first 
—  what  made  you " 

"Oh,  it  was  as  soon  as  we  struck  the  camp,  when  Saun- 


The  Marquis  and  Miss  Sally  99 

ders  bawled  out  'The  Marquis  and  Miss  Sally!'  I  saw 
how  rattled  you  got  at  the  name,  and  I  had  my  sus  — 

"Cheeky!"  whispered  the  Marquis.  "And  why 
should  you  think  that  I  thought  he  was  calling  me  '  Miss 
Sally'?" 

"Because,"  answered  the  cook,  calmly,  "I  was  the  Mar 
quis.  My  father  was  the  Marquis  of  Borodale.  But 
you'll  excuse  that,  won't  you,  Sally?  It  really  isn't  my 
fault,  you  know." 


A  FOG  IN  SANTONE 

[Published  in  The  Cosmopolitan,  October,  1912.  Probably 
written  in  1904,  or  shortly  after  O.  Henry's  first  successes  in 
New  York.] 

THE  drug  clerk  looks  sharply  at  the  white  face  half 
concealed  by  the  high-turned  overcoat  collar. 

"I  would  rather  not  supply  you,"  he  said  doubtfully. 
"I  sold  you  a  dozen  morphine  tablets  less  than  an  hour 
ago." 

The  customer  smiles  wanly.  "The  fault  is  in  your 
crooked  streets.  I  didn't  intend  to  call  upon  you  twice, 
but  I  guess  I  got  tangled  up.  Excuse  me." 

He  draws  his  collar  higher,  and  moves  out,  slowly.  He 
stops  under  an  electric  light  at  the  corner,  and  juggles 
absorbedly  with  three  or  four  little  pasteboard  boxes. 
"Thirty-six,"  he  announces  to  himself.  "More  than 
plenty."  For  a  gray  mist  had  swept  upon  Santone  that 
night,  an  opaque  terror  that  laid  a  hand  to  the  throat  of 
each  of  the  city's  guests.  It  was  computed  that  three 
thousand  invalids  were  hibernating  in  the  town.  They 
had  come  from  far  and  wide,  for  here,  among  these  con 
tracted  river-sliced  streets,  the  goddess  Ozone  has  elected 
to  linger. 

Purest  atmosphere,  sir,  on  earth!  You  might  think 
from  the  river  winding  through  our  town  that  we  are  mala- 

100 


A  Fog  id  Santo'ie  101 

rial,  but,  no,  sir!  Repeated  experiments  made  both  by 
the  Government  and  local  experts  show  that  our  air  con 
tains  nothing  deleterious  —  nothing  but  ozone,  sir,  pure 
ozone.  Litmus  paper  tests  made  all  along  the  river  show — 
but  you  can  read  it  all  in  the  prospectuses;  or  the  San- 
toman  will  recite  it  for  you,  word  by  word. 

We  may  achieve  climate,  but  weather  is  thrust  upon 
us.  Santone,  then,  cannot  be  blamed  for  this  cold  gray 
fog  that  came  and  kissed  the  lips  of  the  three  thousand, 
and  then  delivered  them  to  the  cross.  That  night  the 
tubercles,  whose  ravages  hope  holds  in  check,  multi 
plied.  The  writhing  fingers  of  the  pale  mist  did  not  go 
thence  bloodless.  Many  of  the  wooers  of  ozone  capitu 
lated  with  the  enemy  that  night,  turning  their  faces  to 
the  wall  in  that  dumb,  isolated  apathy  that  so  terrifies 
their  watchers.  On  the  red  stream  of  Hemorrhagia  a  few 
souls  drifted  away,  leaving  behind  pathetic  heaps,  white 
and  chill  as  the  fog  itself.  Two  or  three  came  to  view  this 
atmospheric  wraith  as  the  ghost  of  impossible  joys,  sent 
to  whisper  to  them  of  the  egregious  folly  it  is  to  inhale 
breath  into  the  lungs,  only  to  exhale  it  again,  and  these 
used  whatever  came  handy  to  their  relief,  pistols,  gas  or 
the  beneficent  muriate. 

The  purchaser  of  the  morphia  wanders  into  the  fog,  and 
at  length,  finds  himself  upon  a  little  iron  bridge,  one  of  the 
score  or  more  in  the  heart  of  the  city,  under  which  the 
small  tortuous  river  flows.  He  leans  on  the  rail  and 
gasps,  for  here  the  mist  has  concentrated,  lying  like  a  foot 
pad  to  garrote  such  of  the  Three  Thousand  as  creep  that 


102  Rolling  Stones 

way.  The  iron  bridge  guys  rattle  to  the  strain  of  his 
cough,  a  mocking  phthiscal  rattle,  seeming  to  say  to  him : 
"  Clickety-clack !  just  a  little  rusty  cold,  sir  —  but  not 
from  our  river.  Litmus  paper  all  along  the  banks  and 
nothing  but  ozone.  Clacket-y-clack ! " 

The  Memphis  man  at  last  recovers  sufficiently  to  be 
aware  of  another  overcoated  man  ten  feet  away,  leaning 
on  the  rail,  and  just  coming  out  of  a  paroxysm.  There  is 
a  freemasonry  among  the  Three  Thousand  that  does 
away  with  formalities  and  introductions.  A  cough  is 
your  card;  a  hemorrhage  a  letter  of  credit.  The  Memphis 
man,  being  nearer  recovered,  speaks  first. 

"  Goodall.  Memphis  —  pulmonary  tuberculosis  — • 
guess  last  stages."  The  Three  Thousand  economize  on 
words.  Words  are  breath  and  they  need  breath  to  write 
checks  for  the  doctors. 

"Hurd,"    gasps     the     other.     "Hurd;    of     T'leder. 
T'leder,  Ah-hia.     Catarrhal  bronkeetis.     Name's  Dennis, 
too  —  doctor  says.     Says  I'll  live  four  weeks  if  I  —  take 
care  of  myself.     Got  your  walking  papers  yet?" 

"My  doctor,"  says  Goodall  of  Memphis,  a  little  boast- 
ingly,  "gives  me  three  months." 

"Oh,"  remarks  the  man  from  Toledo,  filling  up  great 
gaps  in  his  conversation  with  wheezes,  "damn  the  dif 
ference.  What's  months!  Expect  to  —  cut  mine  down 
to  one  week  —  and  die  in  a  hack  —  a  four  wheeler,  not  a 
cough.  Be  considerable  moanin'  of  the  bars  when  I  put 
out  to  sea.  I've  patronized  'em  pretty  freely  since  I 
struck  my  —  present  gait.  Say,  Goodall  of  Memphis  — 


A  Fog  in  Santone  103 

if  your  doctor  has  set  your  pegs  so  close  —  why  don't  you 

—  get  on  a  big  spree  and  go  —  to  the  devil  quick  and  easy 

—  like  I'm  doing?" 

"A  spree,"  says  Goodall,  as  one  who  entertains  a  new 
idea,  "I  never  did  such  a  thing.  I  was  thinking  of  an 
other  way,  but " 

"Come  on,"  invites  the  Ohioan,  "and  have  some  drinks. 
I've  been  at  it  —  for  two  days,  but  the  inf  —  ernal  stuff 
won't  bite  like  it  used  to.  Goodall  of  Memphis,  what's 
your  respiration?" 

"Twenty-four." 

"Daily  —  temperature?" 

"Hundred  and  four." 

"You  can  do  it  in  two  days.  It'll  take  me  a  —  week. 
Tank  up,  friend  Goodall  —  have  all  the  fun  you  can;  then 

—  off  you  go,  in  the  middle  of  a  jag,  and  s-s-save  trouble 
and  expense.     I'm  a  s-son  of  a  gun  if  this  ain't  a  health 
resort  —  for  your  whiskers !    A  Lake  Erie  f og'd  get  lost 
here  in  two  minutes." 

"You  said  something  about  a  drink,"  says  Goodall. 

A  few  minutes  later  they  line  up  at  a  glittering  bar,  and 
hang  upon  the  arm  rest.  The  bartender,  blond,  heavy, 
well-groomed,  sets  out  their  drinks,  instantly  perceiving 
that  he  serves  two  of  the  Three  Thousand.  He  observes 
that  one  is  a  middle-aged  man,  well-dressed,  with  a  lined 
and  sunken  face;  the  other  a  mere  boy  who  is  chiefly  eyes 
and  overcoat.  Disguising  well  the  tedium  begotten  by 
many  repetitions,  the  server  of  drinks  begins  to  chant  the 
sanitary  saga  of  Santone.  "Rather  a  moist  night,  gentle- 


104  Rolling  Stones 

men,  for  our  town.  A  little  fog  from  our  river,  but  noth 
ing  to  hurt.  Repeated  Tests." 

"Damn  your  litmus  papers,"  gasps  Toledo  —  "without 
any  —  personal  offense  intended." 

"We've  heard  of  'em  before.  Let  'em  turn  red,  white 
and  blue.  What  we  want  is  a  repeated  test  of  that  — 
whiskey.  Come  again.  I  paid  for  the  last  round,  Goodall 
of  Memphis." 

The  bottle  oscillates  from  one  to  the  other,  continues  to 
do  so,  and  is  not  removed  from  the  counter.  The  bar 
tender  sees  two  emaciated  invalids  dispose  of  enough 
Kentucky  Belle  to  floor  a  dozen  cowboys,  without 
displaying  any  emotion  save  a  sad  and  contempla 
tive  interest  in  the  peregrinations  of  the  bottle.  So 
he  is  moved  to  manifest  a  solicitude  as  to  the  conse 
quences. 

"Not  on  your  Uncle  Mark  Hanna,"  responds  Toledo, 
"will  we  get  drunk.  We've  been  —  vaccinated  with 
whiskey  —  and  —  cod  liver  oil.  What  would  send  you  to 
the  police  station  —  only  gives  us  a  thirst.  S-s-set  out 
another  bottle." 

It  is  slow  work  trying  to  meet  death  by  that  route. 
Some  quicker  way  must  be  found.  They  leave  the  saloon 
and  plunge  again  into  the  mist.  The  sidewalks  are  mere 
flanges  at  the  base  of  the  houses;  the  street  a  cold  ravine, 
the  fog  filling  it  like  a  freshet.  Not  far  away  is  the  Mexi 
can  quarter.  Conducted  as  if  by  wires  along  the  heavy 
air  comes  a  guitar's  tinkle,  and  the  demoralizing  voice  of 
some  senorita  singing : 


A  Fog  in  Santone  105 

"En  las  tardes  sombrillos  del  invierro 
En  el  prado  a  Marar  me  reclino 
Y  maldigo  mi  fausto  destine — 
Una  vida  la  mas  infeliz." 

The  words  of  it  they  do  not  understand — neither  Toledo 
nor  Memphis,  but  words  are  the  least  important  things 
in  life.  The  music  tears  the  breasts  of  the  seekers  after 
Nepenthe,  inciting  Toledo  to  remark: 

"Those  kids  of  mine  —  I  wonder  —  by  God,  Mr. 
Goodall  of  Memphis,  we  had  too  little  of  that  whiskey! 
No  slow  music  in  mine,  if  you  please.  It  makes  you  dis- 
remember  to  forget." 

Hurd  of  Toledo,  here  pulls  out  his  watch,  and  says : 

"I'm  a  son  of  a  gun!  Got  an  engagement  for  a  hack 
ride  out  to  San  Pedro  Springs  at  eleven.  Forgot  it.  A 
fellow  from  Noo  York,  and  me,  and  the  Castillo  sisters 
at  Rhinegelder's  Garden.  That  Noo  York  chap's  a  lucky 
dog  —  got  one  whole  lung  —  good  for  a  year  yet.  Plenty 
of  money,  too.  He  pays  for  everything.  I  can't  afford 
—  to  miss  the  jamboree.  Sorry  you  ain't  going  along. 
Good-by,  Goodall  of  Memphis." 

He  rounds  the  corner  and  shuffles  away,  casting  off  thus 
easily  the  ties  of  acquaintanceship  as  the  moribund  do,  the 
season  of  dissolution  being  man's  supreme  hour  of  egoism 
and  selfishness.  But  he  turns  and  calls  back  through  the 
fog  to  the  other:  "I  say,  Goodall  of  Memphis!  If  you 
get  there  before  I  do,  tell  'em  Kurd's  a-comin'  too.  Hurd, 
of  T'leder,  Ah-hia." 

Thus  Goodall's  tempter  deserts  him.     That  youth,  un- 


106  Rolling  Stones 

complaining  and  uncaring,  takes  a  spell  at  coughing,  and, 
recovered,  wanders  desultorily  on  down  the  street,  the 
name  of  which  he  neither  knows  nor  recks.  At  a  certain 
point  he  perceives  swinging  doors,  and  hears,  filtering 
between  them  a  noise  of  wind  and  string  instruments. 
Two  men  enter  from  the  street  as  he  arrives,  and  he  fol 
lows  them  in.  There  is  a  kind  of  ante-chamber,  plenti 
fully  set  with  palms  and  cactuses  and  oleanders.  At 
little  marble-topped  tables  some  people  sit,  while  soft- 
shod  attendants  bring  the  beer.  All  is  orderly,  clean, 
melancholy,  gay,  of  the  German  method  of  pleasure.  At 
his  right  is  the  foot  of  a  stairway.  A  man  there  holds  out 
his  hand.  Goodall  extends  his,  full  of  silver,  the  man 
selects  therefrom  a  coin.  Goodall  goes  upstairs  and  sees 
there  two  galleries  extending  along  the  sides  of  a  concert 
hall  which  he  now  perceives  to  lie  below  and  beyond  the 
anteroom  he  first  entered.  These  galleries  are  divided 
into  boxes  or  stalls,  which  bestow  with  the  aid  of  hanging 
lace  curtains,  a  certain  privacy  upon  their  occupants. 

Passing  with  aimless  feet  down  the  aisle  contiguous  to 
these  saucy  and  discreet  compartments,  he  is  half  checked 
by  the  sight  in  one  of  them  of  a  young  woman,  alone  and 
seated  in  an  attitude  of  reflection.  This  young  woman 
becomes  aware  of  his  approach.  A  smile  from  her  brings 
him  to  a  standstill,  and  her  subsequent  invitation  draws 
him,  though  hesitating,  to  the  other  chair  in  the  box,  a 
little  table  between  them. 

Goodall  is  only  nineteen.  There  are  some  whom,  when 
the  terrible  god  Phthisis  wishes  to  destroy  he  first  makes 


A  Fog  in  Santone  107 

beautiful;  and  the  boy  is  one  of  these.  His  face  is  wax, 
and  an  awful  pulchritude  is  born  of  the  menacing  flame  in 
his  cheeks.  His  eyes  reflect  an  unearthly  vista  engen 
dered  by  the  certainty  of  his  doom.  As  it  is  forbidden 
man  to  guess  accurately  concerning  his  fate,  it  is  inevitable 
that  he  shall  tremble  at  the  slightest  lifting  of  the  veil. 

The  young  woman  is  well-dressed,  and  exhibits  a  beauty 
of  distinctly  feminine  and  tender  sort;  an  Eve-like  come 
liness  that  scarcely  seems  predestined  to  fade. 

It  is  immaterial,  the  steps  by  which  the  two  mount  to  a 
certain  plane  of  good  understanding;  they  are  short  and 
few,  as  befits  the  occasion. 

A  button  against  the  wall  of  the  partition  is  frequently 
disturbed  and  a  waiter  comes  and  goes  at  signal. 

Pensive  beauty  would  nothing  of  wine;  two  thick  plaits 
of  her  blond  hair  hang  almost  to  the  floor;  she  is  a  lineal 
descendant  of  the  Lorelei.  So  the  waiter  brings  the 
brew;  effervescent,  icy,  greenish  golden.  The  orchestra 
on  the  stage  is  playing  "Oh,  Rachel."  The  youngsters 
have  exchanged  a  good  bit  of  information.  She  calls 
him,  "Walter"  and  he  calls  her  "Miss  Rosa." 

Goodall's  tongue  is  loosened  and  he  has  told  her  every 
thing  about  himself,  about  his  home  in  Tennessee,  the  old 
pillared  mansion  under  the  oaks,  the  stables,  the  hunting; 
the  friends  he  has;  down  to  the  chickens,  and  the  box 
bushes  bordering  the  walks.  About  his  coming  South  for 
the  climate,  hoping  to  escape  the  hereditary  foe  of  his 
family.  All  about  his  three  months  on  a  ranch;  the  deer 
hunts,  the  rattlers,  and  the  rollicking  in  the  cow  camps. 


108  Rolling  Stones 

Then  of  his  advent  to  Santone,  where  he  had  indirectly 
learned,  from  a  great  specialist  that  his  life's  calendar  prob 
ably  contains  but  two  more  leaves.  And  then  of  this 
death- white,  choking  night  which  has  come  and  strangled 
his  fortitude  and  sent  him  out  to  seek  a  port  amid  its 
depressing  billows. 

"My  weekly  letter  from  home  failed  to  come,"  he  told 
her,  "and  I  was  pretty  blue.  I  knew  I  had  to  go  before 
long  and  I  was  tired  of  waiting.  I  went  out  and  bought 
morphine  at  every  drug  store  where  they  would  sell  me  a 
few  tablets.  I  got  thirty-six  quarter  grains,  and  was 
going  back  to  my  room  and  take  them,  but  I  met  a  queer 
fellow  on  a  bridge,  who  had  a  new  idea." 

Goodall  fillips  a  little  pasteboard  box  upon  the  table. 
"I  put  'em  all  together  in  there." 

Miss  Rosa,  being  a  woman,  must  raise  the  lid,  and  gave 
a  slight  shiver  at  the  innocent  looking  triturates.  "Hor 
rid  things !  but  those  little,  white  bits  —  they  could  never 
kill  one!" 

Indeed  they  could.  Walter  knew  better.  Nine  grains 
of  morphia!  Why,  half  the  amount  might. 

Miss  Rosa  demands  to  know  about  Mr.  Hurd,  of  Toledo, 
and  is  told.  She  laughs  like  a  delighted  child.  "What  a 
funny  fellow!  But  tell  me  more  about  your  home  and 
your  sisters,  Walter.  I  know  enough  about  Texas  and 
tarantulas  and  cowboys." 

The  theme  is  dear,  just  "now,  to  his  mood,  and  he  lays 
before  her  the  simple  details  of  a  true  home;  the  little  ties 
and  endearments  that  so  fill  the  exile's  heart.  Of  his 


A  Fog  in  Santone  109 

sisters,  one,  Alice,  furnishes  him  a  theme  he  loves  to  dwell 
upon. 

"She  is  like  you,  Miss  Rosa,"  he  says.  "Maybe  not 
quite  so  pretty,  but  just  as  nice,  and  good,  and " 

"There!  Walter,"  says  Miss  Rosa  sharply,  "now  talk 
about  something  else." 

But  a  shadow  falls  upon  the  wall  outside,  preceding  a 
big,  softly  treading  man,  finely  dressed,  who  pauses  a 
second  before  the  curtains  and  then  passes  on.  Pres 
ently  comes  the  waiter  with  a  message:  "Mr.  Rolfe 
says " 

"Tell  Rolfe  I'm  engaged." 

"I  don't  know  why  it  is,"  says  Goodall,  of  Memphis, 
"but  I  don't  feel  as  bad  as  I  did.  An  hour  ago  I  wanted 
to  die,  but  since  I've  met  you,  Miss  Rosa,  I'd  like  so  much 
to  live.'* 

The  young  woman  whirls  around  the  table,  lays  an  arm 
behind  his  neck  and  kisses  him  on  the  cheek. 

"You  must,  dear  boy,"  she  says.  "I  know  what  was 
the  matter.  It  was  the  miserable  foggy  weather  that  has 
lowered  your  spirit  and  mine  too  —  a  little.  But  look, 
now." 

With  a  little  spring  she  has  drawn  back  the  curtains.  A 
window  is  in  the  wall  opposite,  and  lo !  the  mist  is  cleared 
away.  The  indulgent  moon  is  out  again,  revoyaging  the 
plumbless  sky.  Roof  and  parapet  and  spire  are  softly 
pearl  enamelled.  Twice,  thrice  the  retrieved  river  flashes 
back,  between  the  houses,  the  light  of  the  firmament.  A 
*onic  day  will  dawn,  sweet  and  prosperous. 


110  Rolling  Stones 

"Talk  of  death  when  the  world  is  so  beautiful!"  says 
Miss  Rosa,  laying  her  hand  on  his  shoulder.  "Do  some 
thing  to  please  me,  Walter.  Go  home  to  your  rest  and 
say:  *I  mean  to  get  better/  and  do  it." 

"H  you  ask  it,"  says  the  boy,  with  a  smile,  "I  will." 

TLe  waiter  brings  full  glasses.  Did  they  ring?  No; 
but  it  is  well.  He  may  leave  them.  A  farewell  glass. 
Miss  Rosa  says:  "To  your  better  health,  Walter."  He 
says:  "To  our  next  meeting." 

His  eyes  look  no  longer  into  the  void,  but  gaze  upon  the 
antithesis  of  death.  His  foot  is  set  in  an  undiscovered 
country  to-night.  He  is  obedient,  ready  to  go.  "Good 
night,"  she  says. 

"I  never  kissed  a  girl  before,"  he  confesses,  "except  my 
sisters." 

"You  didn't  this  time,"  she  laughs,  "I  kissed  you — • 
good  night." 

"When  shall  I  see  you  again,"  he  persists. 

"You  promised  me  to  go  home,"  she  frowns,  "and  get 
well.  Perhaps  we  shall  meet  again  soon.  Good  night." 
He  hesitates,  his  hat  in  hand.  She  smiles  broadly  and 
kisses  him  once  more  upon  the  forehead.  She  watches 
him  far  down  the  aisle,  then  sits  again  at  the  table. 

The  shadow  falls  once  more  against  the  wall.  This 
time  the  big,  softly  stepping  man  parts  the  curtains  and 
looks  in.  Miss  Rosa's  eyes  meet  his  and  for  half  a  minute 
they  remain  thus,  silent,  fighting  a  battle  with  that  king 
of  weapons.  Presently  the  big  man  drops  the  curtains 
and  passes  on 


A  Fog  in  S  ant  one  111 

The  orchestra  ceases  playing  suddenly,  and  an  impor 
tant  voice  can  be  heard  loudly  talking  in  one  of  the  boxes 
farther  down  the  aisle.  No  doubt  some  citizen  entertains 
there  some  visitor  to  the  town,  and  Miss  Rosa  leans  back 
in  her  chair  and  smiles  at  some  of  the  words  she  catches : 

"Purest  atmosphere  —  in  the  world  —  litmus  paper  all 
long  —  nothing  hurtful  —  our  city  —  nothing  but  pure 
ozone." 

The  waiter  returns  for  the  tray  and  glasses.  As  he 
enters,  the  girl  crushes  a  little  empty  pasteboard  box  in  her 
hand  and  throws  it  in  a  corner.  She  is  stirring  something 
in  her  glass  with  her  hatpin. 

"Why,  Miss  Rosa,"  says  the  waiter  with  the  civil  fa 
miliarity  he  uses  —  "putting  salt  in  your  beer  this  early 

the  night!" 


THE  FRIENDLY  CALL 

[Published  in  "  Monthly  Magazine  Section,"  July,  1910.] 


I  used  to  sell  hardware  in  the  West,  I  oftea 
"made"  a  little  town  called  Saltillo,  in  Colorado.  I  was 
always  certain  of  securing  a  small  or  a  large  order  from 
Simms  Bell,  who  kept  a  general  store  there.  Bell  was  one 
of  those  six-foot,  low-  voiced  products,  formed  from  a  union 
of  the  West  and  the  South.  I  liked  him.  To  look  at 
him  you  would  think  he  should  be  robbing  stage  coaches 
or  juggling  gold  mines  with  both  hands;  but  he  would  sell 
you  a  paper  of  tacks  or  a  spool  of  thread,  with  ten  times 
more  patience  and  courtesy  than  any  saleslady  in  a  city 
department  store. 

I  had  a  twofold  object  in  my  last  visit  to  Saltillo. 
One  was  to  sell  a  bill  of  goods;  the  other  to  advise  Bell  of 
a  chance  that  I  knew  of  by  which  I  was  certain  he  could 
make  a  small  fortune. 

In  Mountain  City,  a  town  on  the  Union  Pacific,  five 
times  larger  than  Saltillo,  a  mercantile  firm  was  about  to 
go  to  the  wall.  It  had  a  lively  and  growing  custom,  but 
was  on  the  edge  of  dissolution  and  ruin.  Mismanagement 
and  the  gambling  habits  of  one  of  the  partners  explained 
it.  The  condition  of  the  firm  was  not  yet  public  property. 
I  had  my  knowledge  of  it  from  a  private  source.  I  knew 

112 


The  Friendly  Call  113 

that,  if  the  ready  cash  were  offered,  the  stock  and  good 
will  could  be  bought  for  about  one  fourth  their  value. 

On  arriving  in  Saltillo  I  went  to  Bell's  store.  He 
nodded  to  me,  smiled  his  broad,  lingering  smile,  went  on 
leisurely  selling  some  candy  to  a  little  girl,  then  came 
around  the  counter  and  shook  hands. 

"Well,"  he  said  (his  invariable  preliminary  jocosity  at 
every  call  I  made),  "I  suppose  you  are  out  here  making 
kodak  pictures  of  the  mountains.  It's  the  wrong  time  of 
the  year  to  buy  any  hardware,  of  course." 

I  told  Bell  about  the  bargain  in  Mountain  City.  If  he 
wanted  to  take  advantage  of  it,  I  would  rather  have  missed 
a  sale  than  have  him  overstocked  in  Saltillo. 

"It  sounds  good,"  he  said,  with  enthusiasm.  "I'd  like 
to  branch  out  and  do  a  bigger  business,  and  I'm  obliged 
to  you  for  mentioning  it.  But  —  well,  you  come  and  stay 
at  my  house  to-night  and  I'll  think  about  it." 

It  was  then  after  sundown  and  time  for  the  larger  stores 
in  Saltillo  to  close.  The  clerks  in  Bell's  put  away  their 
books,  whirled  the  combination  of  the  safe,  put  on  their 
coats  and  hats  and  left  for  their  homes.  Bell  padlocked 
the  big,  double  wooden  front  doors,  and  we  stood,  for  a 
moment,  breathing  the  keen,  fresh  mountain  air  coming 
across  the  foothills. 

A  big  man  walked  down  the  street  and  stopped  in  front 
of  the  high  porch  of  the  store.  His  long,  black  moustache, 
black  eyebrows,  and  curly  black  hair  contrasted  queerly 
with  his  light,  pink  complexion,  which  belonged,  by  rights, 
to  a  blonde.  He  was  about  forty,  and  wore  a  white  vest, 


114  Rolling  Stones 

wliite  hat,  a  watch  chain  made  of  five-dollar  gold  pieces 
linked  together,  and  a  rather  well-fitting  two-piece  gray 
suit  of  the  cut  that  college  boys  of  eighteen  are  wont  to 
affect.  He  glanced  at  me  distrustfully,  and  then  at  Bell 
with  coldness  and,  I  thought,  something  of  enmity  in  his 
expression. 

"Well,"  asked  Bell,  as  if  he  were  addressing  a  stranger, 
"did  you  fix  up  that  matter?" 

"Did  I!"  the  man  answered,  in  a  resentful  tone. 
"What  do  you  suppose  I've  been  here  two  weeks  for? 
The  business  is  to  be  settled  to-night.  Does  that  suit 
you,  or  have  you  got  something  to  kick  about?  " 

"It's  all  right,"  said  Bell.     "I  knew  you'd  do  it." 

"Of  course,  you  did,"  said  the  magnificent  stranger. 
"Haven't  I  done  it  before?" 

"You  have,"  admitted  Bell.  "And  so  have  I.  How 
do  you  find  it  at  the  hotel?  " 

"Rocky  grub.  But  I  ain't  kicking.  Say  —  can  you 
give  me  any  pointers  about  managing  that  —  affair?  It's 
my  first  deal  in  that  line  of  business,  you  know." 

"No,  I  can't,"  answered  Bell,  after  some  thought. 
"I've  tried  all  kinds  of  ways.  You'll  have  to  try  some 
of  your  own." 

"Tried  soft  soap?" 

"Barrels  of  it." 

"Tried  a  saddle  girth  with  a  buckle  on  the  end  of  it?" 

"Never  none.    Started  to  once;  and  here's  what  I  got." 

Bill  held  out  his  right  hand.  Even  in  the  deepening 
twilight,  I  could  see  on  the  back  of  it  a  long,  white  scar, 


The  Friendly  Call  115 

that  might  have  been  made  by  a  claw  or  a  knife  or  some 
sharp-edged  tool. 

"Oh,  well,"  said  the  florid  man,  carelessly,  "I'll  know 
what  to  do  later  on." 

He  walked  away  without  another  word.  When  he  had 
gone  ten  steps  he  turned  and  called  to  Bell : 

"You  keep  well  out  of  the  way  when  the  goods  are 
delivered,  so  there  won't  be  any  hitch  in  the  business." 

"All  right,"  anwered  Bell,  "I'll  attend  to  my  end  of  the 
line." 

This  talk  was  scarcely  clear  in  its  meaning  to  me;  but 
as  it  did  not  concern  me,  I  did  not  let  it  weigh  upon  my 
mind.  But  the  singularity  of  the  other  man's  appearance 
lingered  with  me  for  a  while;  and  as  we  walked  toward 
Bell's  house  I  remarked  to  him : 

"  Your  customer  seems  to  be  a  surly  kind  of  fellow  — 
not  one  that  you'd  like  to  be  snowed  in  with  in  a  camp  on  a 
hunting  trip." 

"He  is  that,"  assented  Bell,  heartily.  "He  reminds  me 
of  a  rattlesnake  that's  been  poisoned  by  the  bite  of  a 
tarantula." 

"He  doesn't  look  like  a  citizen  of  Saltillo,"  I  went  on. 

"No,"  said  Bell,  "he  lives  in  Sacramento.  He's  down 
here  on  a  little  business  trip.  His  name  is  George  Ringo, 
and  he's  been  my  best  friend  —  in  fact  the  only  friend  I 
ever  had  —  for  twenty  years." 

I  was  too  surprised  to  make  any  further  comment. 

Bell  lived  in  a  comfortable,  plain,  square,  two-story 
white  house  on  the  edge  of  the  little  town.  I  waited  in 


116  Rolling  Stones 

the  parlor  —  a  room  depressingly  genteel  —  furnished 
with  rod  plush,  straw  matting,  looped-up  lace  curtains,  and 
a  davs  case  large  enough  to  contain  a  mummy,  full  of 
mineral  specimens. 

AVhile  I  waited,  I  heard,  upstairs,  that  unmistakable 
sound  instantly  recognized  the  world  over  —  a  bickering 
woman's  voice,  rising  as  her  anger  and  fury  grew.  I 
could  hear,  between  the  gusts,  the  temperate  rumble  of 
Boll's  tones,  striving  to  oil  the  troubled  waters. 

The  storm  subsided  soon;  but  not  before  I  had  heard  the 
woman  say,  in  a  lower,  concentrated  tone,  rather  more 
carrying  than  her  high-pitched  railings:  "This  is  the  last 
time.  I  tell  you  —  the  last  time.  Oh,  you  will  under 
stand." 

The  household  seemed  to  consist  of  only  Bell  and  his 
wife  and  a  servant  or  two.  I  was  introduced  to  Mrs. 
Bell  at  supper. 

At  first  sight  she  seemed  to  be  a  handsome  woman,  but 
I  soon  perceived  that  her  charm  had  been  spoiled.  An 
uncontrolled  petulance,  I  thought,  an  emotional  egotism, 
an  absence  of  poise  and  a  habitual  dissatisfaction  had 
marred  her  womanhood.  During  the  meal,  she  showed 
that  false  gayety,  spurious  kindliness  and  reactionary  soft 
ness  that  mark  the  woman  addicted  to  tantrums.  Withal, 
she  was  a  woman  who  might  be  attractive  to  many  men. 

After  supper.  Boll  and  I  took  our  chairs  outside,  set 
thorn  on  the  grass  in  the  moonlight  and  smoked.  The 
full  moon  is  a  witch.  In  her  light,  truthful  men  dig  up  for 
you  nuggets  of  purer  gold;  while  liars  squeeze  out  brighter 


The  Friendly  Call  117 

colors  from  the  tubes  of  their  invention.    I  saw  Bell's 
broad,  slow  smile  come  out  upon  his  face  and  finger  there. 

"  I  reckon  you  think  George  and  me  are  a  funny  kind 
of  friends,"  he  said.  "The  fact  is  we  never  did  take  much 
interest  in  each  other's  company.  But  his  idea  and  mine, 
of  what  a  friend  .should  b<- 

lived  up  to  it,  strict,  all  these  years.     Now,  HI  give  you 
an  idea  of  what  our  idea  is. 

"A  man  don't  need  but  one  friend.  The  feDow  who 
drinks  your  liquor  and  hangs  around  you,  slapping  you  on 
the  back  and  taking  up  your  time,  telling  you  how  much 
he  likes  you,  ain't  a  friend,  even  if  you  did  play  marbles 
at  school  and  fish  in  the  same  creek  with  him.  As  long 
as  you  don't  need  a  friend  one  of  that  kind  may  answer. 
But  a  friend,  to  my  mind,  is  one  you  can  deal  with  on  a 
strict  reciprocity  basis  like  me  and  George  have  always 
done. 

*'A  gO'Od  many  years  ago,  him  and  me  was  connected 
in  a  number  of  ways.  We  put  our  capital  together  and 
run  a  line  of  freight  wagons  in  New  Mexico,  and  we  mined 
some  and  gambled  a  few.  And  then,  we  got  into  trouble 
of  one  or  two  kinds;  and  I  reckon  that  got  us  on  a  better 
understandable  basis  than  anything  else  did,  unless  it 
was  the  fact  that  we  never  had  much  personal  use  for 
each  other's  ways.  George  is  the  vainest  man  I  ever  see, 
and  the  biggest  brag.  He  could  blow  the  biggest  geyser 
in  the  Yosemite  valley  back  into  its  hole  with  one  whisper. 
I  am  a  quiet  man,  and  fond  of  studiousness  and  thought. 
The  more  we  used  to  see  each  other,  personally,  the  less 


118  Rolling  Stones 

we  seemed  to  like  to  be  together.  If  he  ever  had  slapped 
me  on  the  back  and  .snivelled  over  me  like  I've  seen  men  do 
to  what  they  called  their  friends,  I  know  I'd  have  had  a 
rough-and-tumble  with  him  on  the  spot.  Same  way  with 
George.  He  hated  my  ways  as  bad  as  I  did  his.  When 
we  were  mining,  we  lived  in  separate  tents,  so  as  not  to 
intrude  our  obnoxiousness  on  each  other. 

"But  after  a  long  time,  we  begun  to  know  each  of  us 
could  depend  on  the  other  when  we  were  in  a  pinch,  up  to 
his  last  dollar,  word  of  honor  or  perjury,  bullet,  or  drop  of 
blood  we  had  in  the  world.  We  never  even  spoke  of  it  to 
each  other,  because  that  would  have  spoiled  it.  But  we 
tried  it  out,  time  after  time,  until  we  came  to  know.  I've 
grabbed  my  hat  and  jumped  a  freight  and  rode  200  miles 
to  identify  him  when  he  was  about  to  be  hung  by  mistake, 
in  Idaho,  for  a  train  robber.  Once,  I  laid  sick  of  typhoid 
in  a  tent  in  Texas,  without  a  dollar  or  a  change  of  clothes, 
and  sent  for  George  in  Boise  City.  He  came  on  the  next 
train.  The  first  thing  he  did  before  speaking  to  me,  was 
to  hang  up  a  little  looking  glass  on  the  side  of  the  tent  and 
curl  liis  moustache  and  rub  some  hair  dye  on  his  head. 
His  Lair  is  naturally  a  light  reddish.  Then  he  gave  me  the 
most  scientific  cusr.iag  I  ever  had,  and  took  off  his  coat. 

" '  If  you  wasn't  a  Moses-meek  little  Mary's  lamb,  you 
wouldn't  have  been  took  down  this  way,'  says  he. 
'Haven't  you  got  gumption  enough  not  to  drink  swamp 
water  or  fall  down  and  scream  whenever  you  have  a  little 
colic  or  feel  a  mosquito  bite  you?'  He  made  me  a  little 
mad. 


The  Friendly  Call  119 

"  *  You've  got  the  bedside  manners  of  a  Piute  medicine 
man/  says  I.  *  And  I  wish  you'd  go  away  and  let  me  die 
a  natural  death.  I'm  sorry  I  sent  for  you.' 

"'I've  a  mind  to,'  says  George,  'for  nobody  cares 
whether  you  live  or  die.  But  now  I've  been  tricked  into 
coming,  I  might  as  well  stay  until  this  little  attack  of 
indigestion  or  nettle  rash  or  whatever  it  is,  passes 
away.' 

"Two  weeks  afterward,  when  I  was  beginning  to  get 
around  again,  the  doctor  laughed  and  said  he  was  sure 
that  my  friend's  keeping  me  mad  all  the  time  did  more 
than  his  drugs  to  cure  me. 

"So  that's  the  way  George  and  me  was  friends.  There 
wasn't  any  sentiment  about  it  —  it  was  just  give  and  take, 
and  each  of  us  knew  that  the  other  was  ready  for  the  call 
at  any  time. 

"I  remember,  once,  I  played  a  sort  of  joke  on  George, 
just  to  try  him.  I  felt  a  little  mean  about  it  afterward, 
because  I  never  ought  to  have  doubted  he'd  do  it. 

"We  was  both  living  in  a  little  town  in  the  San  IfcU*4 
valley,  running  some  flocks  of  sheep  and  a  few  cattle. 
We  were  partners,  but,  as  usual,  we  didn't  live  together. 
I  had  an  old  aunt,  out  from  the  East,  visiting  for  the 
summer,  so  I  rented  a  little  cottage.  She  soon  had  a 
couple  of  cows  and  some  pigs  and  chickens  to  make  the 
place  look  like  home.  George  lived  alone  in  a  little  cabin 
half  a  mile  out  of  town. 

"One  day  a  calf  that  we  had,  died.  That  night  I  broke 
its  bones,  dumped  it  into  a  coarse  sack  and  tied  it  up  with 


120  Rolling  Stones 

wire.  I  put  on  an  old  shirt,  tore  a  sleeve  'most  out  of  it, 
and  the  collar  half  off,  tangled  up  my  hair,  put  some  red 
ink  on  my  hands  and  spashed  some  of  it  over  my  shirt  and 
face.  I  must  have  looked  like  I'd  been  having  the  fight 
of  my  life.  I  put  the  sack  in  a  wagon  and  drove  out  to 
George's  cabin.  When  I  halloed,  he  came  out  in  a  yellow 
dressing-gown,  a  Turkish  cap  and  patent  leather  shoes. 
George  always  was  a  great  dresser. 

"I  dumped  the  bundle  to  the  ground. 

"*Sh-sh!'  says  I,  kind  of  wild  in  my  way.  'Take  that 
and  bury  it,  George,  out  somewhere  behind  your  house  — 
bury  it  just  like  it  is.  And  don ' 

" 'Don't  get  excited,'  says  George.  'And  for  the  Lord's 
sake  go  and  wash  your  hands  and  face  and  put  on  a  clean 
shirt.' 

"  And  he  lights  his  pipe,  while  I  drive  away  at  a  gallop. 
The  next  morning  he  drops  around  to  our  cottage,  where 
my  aunt  was  fiddling  with  her  flowers  and  truck  in  the 
front  yard.  He  bends  himself  and  bows  and  makes  com 
pliments  as  he  could  do,  when  so  disposed,  and  begs  a  rose 
bush  from  her,  saying  he  had  turned  up  a  little  land  back 
of  his  cabin,  and  wanted  to  plant  something  on  it  by  way 
of  usefulness  and  ornament.  So  my  aunt,  flattered,  pulls 
up  one  of  her  biggest  by  the  roots  and  gives  it  to  him. 
Afterward  I  see  it  growing  where  he  planted  it,  in  a  place 
where  the  grass  had  been  cleared  off  and  the  dirt  levelled. 
But  neither  George  nor  me  ever  spoke  of  it  to  each  other 
again." 

The  moon  rose  higher,  possibly  drawing  water  from  the 


The  Friendly  Call 

sea,  pixies  from  their  dells  and  certainly  more  confidences 
from  Simms  Bell,  the  friend  of  a  friend. 

"There  come  a  time,  not  long  afterward,"  he  went  on, 
"when  I  was  able  to  do  a  good  turn  for  George  Ringo. 
George  had  made  a  little  pile  of  money  in  beeves  and  he 
was  up  in  Denver,  and  he  showed  up  when  I  saw  him,  wear 
ing  deer-skin  vests,  yellow  shoes,  clothes  like  the  awnings 
in  front  of  drug  stores,  and  his  hair  dyed  so  blue  that  it 
looked  black  in  the  dark.  He  wrote  me  to  come  up  there, 
quick  —  that  he  needed  me,  and  to  bring  the  best  outfit 
of  clothes  I  had.  I  had  'em  on  when  I  got  the  letter,  so 
I  left  on  the  next  train.  George  was " 

Bell  stopped  for  half  a  minute,  listening  intently. 

"I  thought  I  heard  a  team  coming  down  the  road,"  he 
explained.  George  was  at  a  summer  resort  on  a  lake 
near  Denver  and  was  putting  on  as  many  airs  as  he  knew 
how.  He  had  rented  a  little  two-room  cottage,  and  had  a 
Chihauhau  dog  and  a  hammock  and  eight  different  kinds 
of  walking  sticks. 

;" Simms,' he  says  tome,  'there's  a  widow  woman  here 
that's  pestering  the  soul  out  of  me  with  her  intentions.  I 
can't  get  out  of  her  way.  It  ain't  that  she  ain't  hand 
some  and  agreeable,  in  a  sort  of  style,  but  her  atten 
tions  is  serious,  and  I  ain't  ready  for  to  marry  nobody 
and  settle  down.  I  can't  go  to  no  festivity  nor  sit  on  the 
hotel  piazza  or  mix  in  any  of  the  society  round-ups,  but 
what  she  cuts  me  out  of  the  herd  and  puts  her  daily  brand 
on  me.  I  like  this  here  place,'  goes  on  George,  'and 
I'm  making  a  hit  here  in  the  most  censorious  circles, 


Rolling  Stones 

so  I  don't  want  to  have  to  run  away  from  it.     So  I  sent 
for  you/ 

'  *  What  do  you  want  me  to  do? '  I  asks  George. 

«««  Why,'  says  he,  *  I  want  you  to  head  her  off.  I  want 
you  to  cut  me  out.  I  want  you  to  come  to  the  rescue. 
Suppose  you  seen  a  wildcat  about  for  to  eat  me,  what 
would  you  do?' 

"'  Go  for  it,'  says  I. 

;" Correct,'  says  George.  'Then  go  for  this  Mrs.  De 
Clinton  the  same.' 

" 'How  am  I  to  do  it? '  I  asks.  'By  force  and  awfulness 
or  in  some  gentler  and  less  lurid  manner? ' 

'"Court  her,'  George  says,  'get  her  off  my  trail.  Feed 
her.  Take  her  out  in  boats.  Hang  around  her  and 
stick  to  her.  Get  her  mashed  on  you  if  you  can.  Some 
women  are  pretty  big  fools.  Who  knows  but  what  she 
might  take  a  fancy  to  you.' 

"'Had  you  ever  thought,'  I  asks,  'of  repressing  your 
fatal  fascinations  in  her  presence;  of  squeezing  a  harsh 
note  in  the  melody  of  your  siren  voice,  of  veiling  your 
beauty  —  in  other  words,  of  giving  her  the  bounce  your 
self?' 

"  George  sees  no  essence  of  sarcasm  in  my  remark.  He 
twists  his  moustache  and  looks  at  the  points  of  his 
shoes. 

"'Well,  Simms,'  he  said,  'you  know  how  I  am  about 
the  ladies.  I  can't  hurt  none  of  their  feelings.  I'm, 
by  nature,  polite  and  esteemful  of  their  intents  and  pur 
poses.  This  Mrs.  De  Clinton  don't  appear  to  be  the  suit- 


The  Friendly  Call  123 

able  sort  for  me.  Besides,  I  ain't  a  marrying  man  by 
all  means.' 

"'All  right/  said  I,  'I'll  do  the  best  I  can  in  the  case/ 

"  So  I  bought  a  new  outfit  of  clothes  and  a  book  on  eti 
quette  and  made  a  dead  set  for  Mrs.  De  Clinton.  She 
was  a  fine-locking  woman,  cheerful  and  gay.  At  first,  I 
almost  had  to  hobble  her  to  keep  her  from  loping  around 
at  George's  heels;  but  finally  I  got  her  so  she  seemed  glad 
to  go  riding  with  me  and  sailing  on  the  lake;  and  she 
seemed  real  hurt  on  the  mornings  when  I  forgot  to  send 
her  a  bunch  of  flowers.  Still,  I  didn't  like  the  way  she 
looked  at  George,  sometimes,  out  of  the  corner  of  her  eye. 
George  was  having  a  fine  time  now,  going  with  the  whole 
bunch  just  as  he  pleased.  Yes'm,"  continued  Bell,  "she 
certainly  was  a  fine-looking  woman  at  that  time.  She's 
changed  some  since,  as  you  might  have  noticed  at  the 
supper  table." 

"What!  "I  exclaimed. 

"I  married  Mrs.  De  Clinton,"  went  on  Bell.  "One 
evening  while  we  were  up  at  the  lake.  When  I  told 
George  about  it,  he  opened  his  mouth  and  I  thought  he 
was  going  to  break  our  traditions  and  say  something 
grateful,  but  he  swallowed  it  back. 

" '  All  right,'  says  he,  playing  with  his  dog.  'I  hope  you 
won't  have  too  much  trouble.  Myself,  I'm  not  never 
going  to  marry.' 

"That  was  three  years  ago,"  said  Bell.  "We  came 
here  to  live.  For  a  year  we  got  along  medium  fine.  And 
then  everything  changed.  For  two  years  I've  been  having 


Rolling  Stones 

something  that  rhymes  first-class  with  my  name.  You 
heard  the  row  upstairs  this  evening?  That  was  a  merry 
welcome  compared  to  the  usual  average.  She's  tired  of 
me  and  of  this  little  town  life  and  she  rages  all  day,  like 
a  panther  in  a  cage.  I  stood  it  until  two  weeks  ago  and 
then  I  had  to  send  out  The  Call.  I  located  George  in 
Sacramento.  He  started  the  day  he  got  my  wire." 

Mrs.  Bell  came  out  of  the  house  swiftly  toward  us. 
Some  strong  excitement  or  anxiety  seemed  to  possess  her, 
but  she  smiled  a  faint  hostess  smile,  and  tried  to  keep  her 
voice  calm. 

"The  dew  is  falling,"  she  said,  "and  it's  growing  rather 
late.  Wouldn't  you  gentlemen  rather  come  into  the 
house?" 

Bell  took  some  cigars  from  his  pocket  and  answered: 
"It's  most  too  fine  a  night  to  turn  in  yet.  I  think  Mr. 
Ames  and  I  will  walk  out  along  the  road  a  mile  or  so  and 
have  another  smoke.  I  want  to  talk  with  him  about  some 
goods  that  I  want  to  buy." 

"Up  the  road  or  down  the  road?"  asked  Mrs.  Bell. 

"Down,"  said  Bell. 

I  thought  she  breathed  a  sigh  of  relief. 

When  we  had  gone  a  hundred  yards  and  the  house  be 
came  concealed  by  trees,  Bell  guided  me  into  the  thick 
grove  that  lined  the  road  and  back  through  them  toward 
the  house  again.  We  stopped  within  twenty  yards  of  the 
house,  concealed  by  the  dark  shadows.  I  wondered  at 
this  maneuver.  And  then  I  heard  in  the  distance  coming 
down  the  road  beyond  the  house,  the  regular  hoofbeats  of 


The  Friendly  Call  125 

a  team  of  horses.  Bell  held  his  watch  in  a  ray  of  moon 
light. 

"On  time,  within  a  minute,"  he  said.  " That's  George's 
way." 

The  team  slowed  up  as  it  drew  near  the  house  and 
stopped  in  a  patch  of  black  shadows.  We  saw  the  figure  of 
a  woman  carrying  a  heavy  valise  move  swiftly  from  the 
other  side  of  the  house,  and  hurry  to  the  waiting  vehicle. 
Then  it  rolled  away  briskly  in  the  direction  from  which 
it  had  come. 

I  looked  at  Bell  inquiringly,  I  suppose.  I  certainly 
asked  him  no  question. 

"She's  running  away  with  George,"  said  Bell,  simply. 
"He's  kept  me  posted  about  the  progress  of  the  scheme  all 
along.  She'll  get  a  divorce  in  six  months  and  then  George 
will  marry  her.  He  never  helps  anybody  halfway.  It's 
all  arranged  between  them." 

I  began  to  wonder  what  friendship  was,  after  all. 

When  we  went  into  the  house,  Bell  began  to  talk  easily 
on  other  subjects;  and  I  took  his  cue.  By  and  by  the 
big  chance  to  buy  out  the  business  in  Mountain  City 
came  back  to  my  mind  and  I  began  to  urge  it  upon  him. 
Now  that  he  was  free,  it  would  be  easier  for  him  to  make 
the  move;  and  he  was  sure  of  a  splendid  bargain. 

Bell  was  silent  for  some  minutes,  but  when  I  looked  at 
him  I  fancied  that  he  was  thinking  of  something  else  — 
that  he  was  not  considering  the  project. 

"Why,  no,  Mr.  Ames,"  he  said,  after  a  while,  "I  can't 
make  that  deal.  I'm  awful  thankful  to  you,  though,  for 


126  Rolling  Stones 

telling  me  about  it.  But  I've  got  to  stay  here.  I  can't 
go  to  Mountain  City." 

"Why?"  I  asked. 

"Missis  Bell,"  he  replied  "won't  live  in  Mountain  City. 
She  hates  the  place  and  wouldn't  go  there.  I've  got  to 
keep  right  on  here  in  Saltillo." 

"Mrs.  Bell!"  I  exclaimed,  too  puzzled  to  conjecture 
what  he  meant. 

"I  ought  to  explain,"  said  Bell.  "I  know  George  and 
I  know  Mrs.  Bell.  He's  impatient  in  his  ways.  He 
can't  stand  things  that  fret  him,  long,  like  I  can.  Six 
months,  I  give  them  —  six  months  of  married  life,  and 
there'll  be  another  disunion.  Mrs.  Bell  will  come  back 
to  me.  There's  no  other  place  for  her  to  go.  I've  got 
to  stay  here  and  wait.  At  the  end  of  six  months,  I'll 
have  to  grab  a  satchel  and  catch  the  first  train.  For 
George  will  be  sending  out  The  Call." 


A  DINNER  AT  -— --  * 

[The  story  referred  to  in  this  skit  appears  in  "  The  Trimmed 
Lamp"  under  the  same  title  —  "The  Badge  of  Policeman 
O'Roon."] 

THE    ADVENTURES    OF    AN    AUTHOR    WITH    HIS    OWN    HERO 

ALL  that  day  —  in  fact  from  the  moment  of  his  crea 
tion  —  Van  Sweller  had  conducted  himself  fairly  well  in 
my  eyes.  Of  course  I  had  had  to  make  many  concessions; 
but  in  return  he  had  been  no  less  considerate.  Once  or 
twice  we  had  had  sharp,  brief  contentions  over  certain 
points  of  behavior;  but,  prevailingly,  give  and  take  had 
been  our  rule. 

His  morning  toilet  provoked  our  first  tilt.  Van  Sweller 
went  about  it  confidently. 

"The  usual  thing,  I  suppose,  old  chap,"  he  said,  with  a 
smile  and  a  yawn.  "  I  ring  for  a  b.  and  s.,  and  then  I  have 
my  tub.  I  splash  a  good  deal  in  the  water,  of  course.  You 
are  aware  that  there  are  two  ways  in  which  I  can  receive 
Tommy  Carmichael  when  he  looks  in  to  have  a  chat  about 
polo.  I  can  talk  to  him  through  the  bathroom  door,  or 
I  can  be  picking  at  a  grilled  bone  which  my  man  has 
brought  in.  Which  would  you  prefer?  " 

*  See  advertising  column,  "  Where  to  Dine  Well,"  in  the  daily  news 
papers. 

127 


128  Rolling  Stones 

I  smiled  with  diabolic  satisfaction  at  his  coming  dis 
comfiture. 

"Neither,"  I  said.  "You  will  make  your  appearance 
on  the  scene  when  a  gentleman  should  —  after  you  are 
fully  dressed,  which  indubitably  private  function  shall 
take  place  behind  closed  doors.  And  I  will  feel  indebted 
to  you  if,  after  you  do  appear,  your  deportment  and 
manners  are  such  that  it  will  not  be  necessary  to  inform 
the  public,  in  order  to  appease  its  apprehension,  that  you 
have  taken  a  bath." 

Van  Sweller  slightly  elevated  his  brows. 

"Oh,  very  well,"  he  said,  a  trifle  piqued.  "I  rather 
imagine  it  concerns  you  more  than  it  does  me.  Cut  the 
'tub  *  by  all  means,  if  you  think  best.  But  it  has  been  the 
usual  thing,  you  know." 

This  was  my  victory;  but  after  Van  Sweller  emerged 
from  his  apartments  in  the  "Beaujolie"  I  was  vanquished 
in  a  dozen  small  but  well-contested  skirmishes.  I  allowed 
him  a  cigar;  but  routed  him  on  the  question  of  naming 
its  brand.  But  he  worsted  me  when  I  objected  to  giving 
him  a  "coat  unmistakably  English  in  its  cut."  I  allowed 
him  to  "stroll  down  Broadway,"  and  even  permitted 
"passers  by"  (God  knows  there's  nowhere  to  pass  but  by) 
to  "turn  their  heads  and  gaze  with  evident  admiration  at 
his  erect  figure."  I  demeaned  myself,  and,  as  a  barber, 
gave  him  a  "smooth,  dark  face  with  its  keen,  frank  eye, 
and  firm  jaw." 

Later  on  he  looked  in  at  the  club  and  saw  Freddy  Vava 
sour,  polo  team  captain,  dawdling  over  grilled  bone  No.l. 


A  Dinner  At  *  129 

"Dear  old  boy,"  began  Van  Sweller;  but  in  an  instant 
I  had  seized  him  by  the  collar  and  dragged  him  aside  with 
the  scantiest  courtesy. 

"For  heaven's  sake  talk  like  a  man,"  I  said,  sternly. 
"Do  you  think  it  is  manly  to  use  those  mushy  and  inane 
forms  of  address?  That  man  is  neither  dear  nor  old  nor 
a  boy." 

To  my  surprise  Van  Sweller  turned  upon  me  a  look  of 
frank  pleasure. 

" I  am  glad  to  hear  you  say  that,"  he  said,  heartily.  "I 
used  those  words  because  I  have  been  forced  to  say  them 
so  often.  They  really  are  contemptible.  Thanks  for 
correcting  me,  dear  old  boy." 

Still  I  must  admit  that  Van  Sweller's  conduct  in  the 
park  that  morning  was  almost  without  flaw.  The  courage, 
the  dash,  the  modesty,  the  skill,  and  fidelity  that  he  dis 
played  atoned  for  everything. 

This  is  the  way  the  story  runs. 

Van  Sweller  has  been  a  gentleman  member  of  the 
"Rugged  Riders,"  the  company  that  made  a  war  with  a 
foreign  country  famous.  Among  his  comrades  was  Law 
rence  O'Roon,  a  man  whom  Van  Sweller  liked.  A  strange 
thing  —  and  a  hazardous  one  in  fiction  —  was  that  Van 
Sweller  and  O'Roon  resembled  each  other  mightily  in  face, 
form,  and  general  appearance.  After  the  war  Van  Sweller 
pulled  wires,  and  O'Roon  was  made  a  mounted  policeman. 

Now,  one  night  in  New  York  there  are  commemorations 
and  libations  by  old  comrades,  and  in  the  morning,  Mount 
ed  Policeman  O'Roon,  unused  to  potent  liquids  —  another 


130  Rolling  Stones 

premise  hazardous  in  fiction  —  finds  the  earth  bucking 
and  bounding  like  a  bronco,  with  no  stirrup  into  which 
he  may  insert  foot  and  save  his  honor  and  his  badge. 

Noblesse  oblige?  Surely.  So  out  along  the  driveways 
and  bridle  paths  trots  Hudson  Van  Sweller  in  the  uniform 
of  his  incapacitated  comrade,  as  like  unto  him  as  one 
French  pea  is  unto  a  petit  pois. 

It  is,  of  course,  jolly  larks  for  Van  Sweller,  who  has 
wealth  and  social  position  enough  for  him  to  masquerade 
safely  even  as  a  police  commissioner  doing  his  duty,  if 
he  wished  to  do  so.  But  society,  not  given  to  scanning 
,  the  countenances  of  mounted  policemen,  sees  nothing 
unusual  in  the  officer  on  the  beat. 

And  then  comes  the  runaway. 

That  is  a  fine  scene  —  the  swaying  victoria,  the  im 
petuous,  daft  horses  plunging  through  the  line  of  scattering 
vehicles,  the  driver  stupidly  holding  his  broken  reins,  and 
the  ivory-white  face  of  Amy  Ff olliott,  as  she  clings  desper 
ately  with  each  slender  hand.  Fear  has  come  and  gone: 
it  has  left  her  expression  pensive  and  just  a  little  pleading, 
for  life  is  not  so  bitter. 

And  then  the  clatter  and  swoop  of  Mounted  Policeman 
Van  Sweller !  Oh,  it  was  —  but  the  story  has  not  yet  been 
printed.  When  it  is  you  shall  learn  how  he  sent  his  bay 
like  a  bullet  after  the  imperilled  victoria.  A  Crichton,  a 
Croesus,  and  a  Centaur  in  one,  he  hurls  the  invincible  com 
bination  into  the  chase. 

When  the  story  is  printed  you  will  admire  the  breath 
less  scene  where  Van  Sweller  checks  the  headlong  team, 


A  Dinner  At  *  131 

And  then  he  looks  into  Amy  Ffolliott's  eyes  and  sees  two 
things  —  the  possibilities  of  a  happiness  he  has  long  sought, 
and  a  nascent  promise  of  it.  He  is  unknown  to  her;  but 
he  stands  in  her  sight  illuminated  by  the  hero's  potent 
glory,  she  his  and  he  hers  by  all  the  golden,  fond,  unreason 
able  laws  of  love  and  light  literature. 

Ay,  that  is  a  rich  moment.  And  it  will  stir  you  to  find 
Van  Sweller  in  that  fruitful  nick  of  time  thinking  of  his 
comrade  O'Roon,  who  is  cursing  his  gyrating  bed  and  in 
capable  legs  in  an  unsteady  room  in  a  West  Side  hotel  while 
Van  Sweller  holds  his  badge  and  his  honor. 

Van  Sweller  hears  Miss  Ffolliott's  voice  thrillingly  asking 
the  name  of  her  preserver.  If  Hudson  Van  Sweller,  in 
policeman's  uniform,  has  saved  the  life  of  palpitating 
beauty  in  the  park — where  is  Mounted  Policeman  O'Roon, 
in  whose  territory  the  deed  is  done?  How  quickly  by  a 
word  can  the  hero  reveal  himself,  thus  discarding  his 
masquerade  of  ineligibility  and  doubling  the  romance! 
But  there  is  his  friend ! 

Van  Sweller  touches  his  cap.  "It's  nothing,  Miss," 
he  says,  sturdily;  "that's  what  we  are  paid  for  —  to  do 
our  duty."  And  away  he  rides.  But  the  story  does  not 
end  there. 

As  I  have  said,  Van  Sweller  carried  off  the  park  scene 
to  my  decided  satisfaction.  Even  to  me  he  was  a  hero 
when  he  foreswore,  for  the  sake  of  his  friend,  the  romantic 
promise  of  his  adventure.  It  was  later  in  the  day, 
amongst  the  more  exacting  conventions  that  encompass 
the  society  hero,  when  we  had  our  liveliest  disagreement. 


132  Rolling  Stones 

At  noon  he  went  to  O'Roon's  room  and  found  him  far 
enough  recovered  to  return  to  his  post,  which  he  at  once 
did. 

At  about  six  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  Van  Sweller  fin 
gered  his  watch,  and  flashed  at  me  a  brief  look  full  of 
such  shrewd  cunning  that  I  suspected  him  at  once. 

"Time  to  dress  for  dinner,  old  man,"  he  said,  with  ex 
aggerated  carelessness. 

"Very  well,"  I  answered,  without  giving  him  a  clew  to 
my  suspicions;  "I  will  go  with  you  to  your  rooms  and  see 
that  you  do  the  thing  properly.  I  suppose  that  every 
author  must  be  a  valet  to  his  own  hero." 

He  affected  cheerful  acceptance  of  my  somewhat  officious 
proposal  to  accompany  him.  I  could  see  that  he  was 
annoyed  by  it,  and  that  fact  fastened  deeper  in  my 
mind  the  conviction  that  he  was  meditating  some  act  of 
treachery. 

When  he  had  reached  his  apartments  he  said  to  me,  with 
a  too  patronizing  air:  "There  are,  as  you  perhaps  know, 
quite  a  number  of  little  distinguishing  touches  to  be  had 
out  of  the  dressing  process.  Some  writers  rely  almost 
wholly  upon  them.  I  suppose  that  I  am  to  ring  for  my 
man,  and  that  he  is  to  enter  noiselessly,  with  an  expres 
sionless  countenance." 

"He  may  enter,"  I  said,  with  decision,  "and  only  enter. 
Valets  do  not  usually  enter  a  room  shouting  college  songs 
or  with  St.  Vitus's  dance  in  their  faces;  so  the  contrary 
may  be  assumed  without  fatuous  or  gratuitous  assevera 
tion." 


A  Dinner  At  *  133 

"I  must  ask  you  to  pardon  me,"  continued  Van  Sweller, 
gracefully,  "for  annoying  you  with  questions,  but  some 
of  your  methods  are  a  little  new  to  me.  Shall  I  don  a  full- 
dress  suit  with  an  immaculate  white  tie  —  or  is  there 
another  tradition  to  be  upset?" 

"You  will  wear,"  I  replied,  "evening  dress,  such  as  a 
gentleman  wears.  If  it  is  full,  your  tailor  should  be  respon 
sible  for  its  bagginess.  And  I  will  leave  it  to  whatever 
erudition  you  are  supposed  to  possess  whether  a  white 
tie  is  rendered  any  whiter  by  being  immaculate.  And  I 
will  leave  it  to  the  consciences  of  you  and  your  man 
whether  a  tie  that  is  not  white,  and  therefore  not  immacu 
late,  could  possibly  form  any  part  of  a  gentleman's  evening 
dress.  If  not,  then  the  perfect  tie  is  included  and  under 
stood  in  the  term  *  dress/  and  its  expressed  addition  pred 
icates  either  a  redundancy  of  speech  or  the  spectacle  of 
a  man  wearing  two  ties  at  once." 

With  this  mild  but  deserved  rebuke  I  left  Van  Sweller 
in  his  dressing-room,  and  waited  for  him  in  his  library. 

About  an  hour  later  his  valet  came  out,  and  I  heard  him 
telephone  for  an  electric  cab.  Then  out  came  Van  Sweller, 
smiling,  but  with  that  sly,  secretive  design  in  his  eye  that 
was  puzzling  me. 

"I  believe,"  he  said  easily,  as  he  smoothed  a  glove, 
"that  I  will  drop  in  at *  for  dinner." 

I  sprang  up,  angrily,  at  his  words.  This,  then,  was  the 
paltry  trick  he  had  been  scheming  to  play  upon  me.  I 


*See  advertising  column,  "Where  to  Dine  Well,"  in  the  daily  news 
papers. 


134  Rolling  Stones 

faced  him  with  a  look  so  grim  that  even  his  patrician  poise 
was  flustered. 

"You  will  never  do  so,"  I  exclaimed,  "with  my  permis 
sion.  What  kind  of  a  return  is  this,"  I  continued,  hotly, 
"for  the  favors  I  have  granted  you?  I  gave  you  a  'Van' 
to  your  name  when  I  might  have  called  you  'Perkins*  or 
'Simpson.5  I  have  humbled  myself  so  far  as  to  brag  of 
your  polo  ponies,  your  automobiles,  and  the  iron  muscles 
that  you  acquired  when  you  were  stroke-oar  of  your 
'varsity  eight/  or  'eleven,'  whichever  it  is.  I  created  you 
for  the  hero  of  this  story;  and  I  will  not  submit  to  having 
you  queer  it.  I  have  tried  to  make  you  a  typical  young 
New  York  gentleman  of  the  highest  social  station  and 
breeding.  You  have  no  reason  to  complain  of  my  treat 
ment  to  you.  Amy  Ffolliott,  the  girl  you  are  to  win,  is  a 
prize  for  any  man  to  be  thankful  for,  and  cannot  be 
equalled  for  beauty  —  provided  the  story  is  illustrated 
by  the  right  artist.  I  do  not  understand  why  you  should 
try  to  spoil  everything.  I  had  thought  you  were  a  gentle 
man." 

"What  it  is  you  are  objecting  to,  old  man?"  asked  Van 
Sweller,  in  a  surprised  tone. 

' '  To  your  dining  at ,  *  "  I  answered .  ' '  The  pleasure 

would  be  yours,  no  doubt,  but  the  responsibility  would  fall 
upon  me.  You  intend  deliberately  to  make  me  out  a  tout 
for  a  restaurant.  Where  you  dine  to-night  has  not  the 
slightest  connection  with  the  thread  of  our  story.  You 

*See  advertising  column,  "Where  to  Dine  Well,"  in  the  daily  news 
papers. 


A  Dinner  At  *  135 

know  very  well  that  the  plot  requires  that  you  be  in  front 
of  the  Alhambra  Opera  House  at  11: 30  where  you  are  to 
rescue  Miss  Ffolliott  a  second  time  as  the  fire  engine 
crashes  into  her  cab.  Until  that  time  your  movements 
are  immaterial  to  the  reader.  Why  can't  you  dine  out 
of  sight  somewhere,  as  many  a  hero  does,  instead  of 
insisting  upon  an  inapposite  and  vulgar  exhibition  of 
yourself?  " 

"My  dear  fellow,"  said  Van  Sweller,  politely,  but  with 
a  stubborn  tightening  of  his  lips,  "I'm  sorry  it  doesn't 
please  you,  but  there's  no  help  for  it.  Even  a  character 
in  a  story  has  rights  that  an  author  cannot  ignore.  The 

hero  of  a  story  of  New  York  social  life  must  dine  at * 

at  least  once  during  its  action." 

"'Must,'"  I  echoed,  disdainfully;  "why  'must'?  Who 
demands  it?" 

"The  magazine  editors,"  answered  Van  Sweller,  giving 
me  a  glance  of  significant  warning. 

"But  why?"  I  persisted. 

"To  please  subscribers  around  Kankakee,  111.,"  said 
Van  Sweller,  without  hesitation. 

"How  do  you  know  these  things?"  I  inquired,  with 
sudden  suspicion.  "You  never  came  into  existence  until 
this  morning.  You  are  only  a  character  in  fiction,  any 
way.  I,  myself,  created  you.  How  is  it  possible  for  you 
to  know  anything?" 

"Pardon  me  for  referring  to  it,"  said  Van  Sweller,  with 

*See  advertising  column,  "Where  to  Dine  Well,"  in  the  daily  news 
papers. 


136  Rolling  Stones 

a  sympathetic  smile,  "but  I  have  been  the  hero  of  hun 
dreds  of  stories  of  this  kind." 

I  felt  a  slow  flush  creeping  into  my  face. 

"I  thought  ..."  I  stammered;  "I  was  hoping 
.  .  .  that  is  ...  Oh,  well,  of  course  an  absolutely 
original  conception  in  fiction  is  impossible  in  these 
days." 

"Metropolitan  types,"  continued  Van  Sweller,  kindly, 
"do  not  offer  a  hold  for  much  originality.  I've  sauntered 
through  every  story  in  pretty  much  the  same  way.  Now 
and  then  the  women  writers  have  made  me  cut  some  rather 
strange  capers,  for  a  gentleman;  but  the  men  generally 
pass  me  along  from  one  to  another  without  much  change. 
But  never  yet,  in  any  story,  have  I  failed  to  dine  at .*" 

"You  will  fail  this  time,"  I  said,  emphatically. 

"Perhaps  so,"  admitted  Van  Sweller,  looking  out  of  the 
window  into  the  street  below,  "but  if  so  it  will  be  for  the 
first  time.  The  authors  all  send  me  there.  I  fancy  that 
many  of  them  would  have  liked  to  accompany  me,  but 
for  the  little  matter  of  the  expense." 

"I  say  I  will  be  touting  for  no  restaurant,"  I  repeated, 
loudly.  "You  are  subject  to  my  will,  and  I  declare  that 
you  shall  not  appear  of  record  this  evening  until  the  time 
arrives  for  you  to  rescue  Miss  Ffolliott  again.  If  the 
reading  public  cannot  conceive  that  you  have  dined  during 
that  interval  at  some  one  of  the  thousands  of  establish 
ments  provided  for  that  purpose  that  do  not  receive 

*See  advertising  column,  "Where  to  Dine  Well,"  in  the  daily  news 
papers. 


A  Dinner  At  *  137 

literary  advertisement  it  may  suppose,  for  aught  I  care, 
that  you  have  gone  fasting." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Van  Sweller,  rather  coolly,  "you  are 
hardly  courteous.  But  take  care!  it  is  at  your  own  risk 
that  you  attempt  to  disregard  a  fundamental  principle 
in  metropolitan  fiction  —  one  that  is  dear  alike  to  author 
and  reader.  I  shall,  of  course  attend  to  my  duty  when 
it  comes  time  to  rescue  your  heroine;  but  I  warn  you  that 
it  will  be  your  loss  if  you  fail  to  send  me  to-night  to  dine 
at .*" 

"I  will  take  the  consequences  if  there  are  to  be  any, 
I  replied.  "I  am  not  yet  come  to  be  sandwich  man  for  an 
eating-house." 

I  walked  over  to  a  table  where  I  had  left  my  cane  and 
gloves.  I  heard  the  whirr  of  the  alarm  in  the  cab  below 
and  I  turned  quickly.  Van  Sweller  was  gone. 

I  rushed  down  the  stairs  and  out  to  the  curb.  An 
empty  hansom  was  just  passing.  I  hailed  the  driver  ex 
citedly. 

"See  that  auto  cab  halfway  down  the  block?  "  I  shouted. 
"Follow  it.  Don't  lose  sight  of  it  for  an  instant,  and  I 
will  give  you  two  dollars!" 

If  I  only  had  been  one  of  the  characters  in  my  story 
instead  of  myself  I  could  easily  have  offered  $10  or  $25 
or  even  $100.  But  $2  was  all  I  felt  justified  in  expending, 
with  fiction  at  its  present  rates. 

The  cab  driver,  instead  of  lashing  his  animal  into  a 

*  See  advertising  column,  "Whereto  Dine  Well,"  in  the  daily  news 
papers. 


138  Rolling  Stones 

foam,  proceeded  at  a  deliberate  trot  that  suggested  a  by- 
the-hour  arrangement. 

But  I  suspected  Van  Sweller 's  design;  and  when  we  lost 
sight  of  his  cab  I  ordered  my  driver  to  proceed  at  once 
to .* 

I  found  Van  Sweller  at  a  table  under  a  palm,  just  glancing 
over  the  menu,  with  a  hopeful  waiter  hovering  at  his  elbow. 

"Come  with  me,"  I  said,  inexorably.  "You  will  not 
give  me  the  slip  again.  Under  my  eye  you  shall  remain 
until  11: 30." 

Van  Sweller  countermanded  the  order  for  his  dinner,  and 
arose  to  accompany  me.  He  could  scarcely  do  less.  A 
fictitious  character  is  but  poorly  equipped  for  resisting 
a  hungry  but  live  author  who  comes  to  drag  him  forth 
from  a  restaurant.  All  he  said  was:  "You  were  just  in 
time;  but  I  think  you  are  making  a  mistake.  You  cannot 
afford  to  ignore  the  wishes  of  the  great  reading  public." 

I  took  Van  Sweller  to  my  own  rooms  —  to  my  room.  He 
had  never  seen  anything  like  it  before. 

"Sit  on  that  trunk,"  I  said  to  him,  "while  I  observe 
whether  the  landlady  is  stalking  us.  If  she  is  not,  I  will 
get  things  at  a  delicatessen  store  below,  and  cook  something 
for  you  in  a  pan  over  the  gas  jet.  It  will  not  be  so  bad. 
Of  course  nothing  of  this  will  appear  in  the  story." 

"Jove!  old  man!"  said  Van  Sweller,  looking  about  him 
with  interest,  "this  is  a  jolly  little  closet  you  live  in! 
Where  the  devil  do  you  sleep?  —  Oh,  that  pulls  down!  And 

*See  advertising  column,  "Where  to  Dine  Well,"  in  the  daily  news 
papers. 


A  Dinner  At *  141 

I  say  —  what  is  this  under  the  corner  of  the  carpet?  - 
Oh,  a  frying  pan!    I  see  —  clever  idea!    I'Vncy  cooking 
over  the  gas!     What  larks  it  will  be!" 

"Think  of  anything  you  could  eat?"  I  asked;  "try  a 
chop,  or  what?" 

"Anything,"  said  Van  Sweller,  enthusiastically,  "except 
a  grilled  bone." 

Two  weeks  afterward  the  postman  brought  me  a  large, 
fat  envelope.  I  opened  it,  and  took  out  something  that 
I  had  seen  before,  and  this  typewritten  letter  from  a 
magazine  that  encourages  society  fiction: 

Your  short  story,  "  The  Badge  of  Policeman  O'Roon,"  is  herewith  re 
turned. 

We  are  sorry  that  it  has  been  unfavorably  passed  upon;  but  it  seems 
to  lack  in  some  of  the  essential  requirements  of  our  publication. 

The  story  is  splendidly  constructed;  its  style  is  strong  and  inimitable, 
and  its  action  and  character-drawing  deserve  the  highest  praise.  As  a 
story  per  se  it  has  merit  beyond  anything  that  we  have  read  for  some 
time.  But,  as  we  have  said,  it  fails  to  come  up  to  some  of  the  standards 
we  have  set. 

Could  you  not  re-write  the  story,  and  inject  into  it  the  social  atmos 
phere,  and  return  it  to  us  for  further  consideration?  It  is  suggested 
to  you  that  you  have  the  hero.  Van  Sweller,  drop  in  for  luncheon  or 

dinner  once  or  twice'at *  or  at  the *  which  will  be  in  line  with  the 

changes  desired. 

Very  truly  yours, 
THE  EDITORS. 

*  See  advertising  column,  "Where  to  Dine  Well. "  in  the  daily  news 
papers. 


138 


SOUND  AND  FURY 

[O.  Henry  wrote  this  for  Ainslee's  Magazine,  where  it  appeared 
in  March,  1903.] 

PERSONS  OF  THE  DRAMA 

MB.  PENNE An  Author 

Miss  LORE .        An  Amanuensis 

SCENE  —  Workroom    of    Mr.    Penne's    popular    novel 
factory. 

MR.  PENNE  —  Good  morning,  Miss  Lore.  Glad  to  see 
you  so  prompt.  We  should  finish  that  June  installment 
for  the  Epoch  to-day.  Leverett  is  crowding  me  for  it. 
Are  you  quite  ready?  We  will  resume  where  we  left  off 
yesterday.  (Dictates.)  "Kate,  with  a  sigh,  rose  from  his 
knees,  and " 

Miss  LORE  —  Excuse  me;  you  mean  "rose  from  her 
knees,"  instead  of  "his,"  don't  you? 

MR.  PENNE  —  Er  —  no  —  "his,"  if  you  please.  It  is 
the  love  scene  in  the  garden.  (Dictates.)  "Rose  from  his 
knees  where,  blushing  with  youth's  bewitching  coyness, 
she  had  rested  for  a  moment  after  Cortland  had  declared 
his  love.  The  hour  was  one  of  supreme  and  tender  joy. 
When  Kate  —  scene  that  Cortland  never " 

Miss  LORE  —  Excuse  me;  but  wouldn't  it  be  more 
grammatical  to  say  "when  Kate  sawy"  instead  of  "seen"? 

140 


Sound  and  Fury  141 

MR.  PENNE  —  The  context  will  explain.  (Dictates.) 
"  When  Kate  —  scene  that  Cortland  never  forgot  —  came 
tripping  across  the  lawn  it  seemed  to  him  the  fairest  sight 
that  earth  had  ever  offered  to  his  gaze." 

Miss  LORE  —  Oh ! 

MR.  PENNE  (dictates)  —  "Kate  had  abandoned  herself 
to  the  joy  of  her  new-found  love  so  completely,  that  no 
shadow  of  her  former  grief  was  cast  upon  it.  Cortland, 
with  his  arm  firmly  entwined  about  her  waist,  knew 
nothing  of  her  sjghs_- " 

Miss  LORE  —  Goodness !  If  he  couldn't  tell  her  size 
with  his  arm  around 

MR.  PENNE  (frowning)  —  "Of  her  sighs  and  tears  of 
the  previous  night." 

Miss  LORE  —  Oh! 

MR.  PENNE  (dictates)  —  "To  Cortland  the  chief  charm 
of  this  girl  was  her  look  of  innocence  and  unworldliness. 
Never  hadjiun " 

Miss  LORE"=T!OW  about  changing  that  to  "never  had 
any?" 

MR.  PENNE  (emphatically)  —  "Never  had  nun  in 
cloistered  cell  a  face  more  sweet  and  pure." 

Miss  LORE  —  Oh ! 

MR.  PENNE  (dictates)  —  "But  now  Kate  must  hasten 
back  to  the  house  lest  her  absence  be  discovered.  After 
a  fond  farewell  she  turned  and  sped  lightly  away.  Cort- 
land's  gaze  followed  her.  He  watched  ljerj:ise " 

Miss  LORE  —  Excuse  me,  Mr.  Penne;  but  how  could  he 
watch  her  eyes  while  her  back  was  turned  toward  him? 

-v   -    • 


142  Rolling  Stones 

MR.  PENNE  (with  extreme  'politeness)  —  Possibly  you 
would  gather  my  meaning  more  intelligently  if  you  would 
wait  for  the  conclusion  of  the  sentence.  (Dictates.) 
"Watched  her  rise  as  gracefully  as  a  fawn  as  she  mounted 
the  eastern  terrace." 

Miss  LORE  —  Oh! 

MR.  PENNE  (dictates)  —  "And  yet  Cortland's  position 
was  so  far  above  that  of  this  rustic  maiden  that  he  dreaded 
to  consider  the  social  upheaval  that  would  ensue  should 
he  marry  her.  In  no  uncertain  tones  the  traditional 
voices  of  his  caste  and  world  cried  out  loudly  to  him  to  let 
her  go.  What  should  follow ^J^^^ 

Miss  LORE  (looking  up  with  a  start)  —  I'm  sure  I  can't 
say,  Mr.  Penne.  Unless  (with  a  giggle)  you  would  want 
toadd"Gallegher." 

MR.  PENNE  (coldly)  —  Pardon  me.  I  was  not  seeking 
to  impose  upon  you  the  task  of  a  collaborator.  Kindly 
consider  the  question  a  part  of  the  text. 

Miss  LORE  —  Oh! 

MR.  PENNE  (dictates) — "On  one  side  was  love  and  Kate; 
on  the  other  side  his  heritage  of  social  position  and  family 
pride.  Would  love  win?  Love,  that  the  poets  tell  us 
will  last  forever !  (Perceives  that  Miss  Lore  looks  fatigued* 
and  looks  at  his  watch.)  That's  a  good  long  stretch. 
Perhaps  we'd  better  knock  off  a  bit. 

(Miss  Lore  does  not  reply.) 

MR.  PENNF  —  I  said,  Miss  Lore,  we've  been  at  it 
quite  a  long  time  —  wouldn't  you  like  to  knock  off  for  a 
while? 


Sound  and  Fury  143 

Miss  LORE  —  Oh!  Were  you  addressing  me  before?  I 
put  what  you  said  down.  I  thought  it  belonged  in  the 
story.  It  seemed  to  fit  in  all  right.  Oh,  no;  I'm  not  tired. 

MR.  PENNE  —  Very  well,  then,  we  will  continue. J  (Dic 
tates.)  "In  spite  of  these  qualms  and  doubts,  Cortland 
was  a  happy  man.  That  night  at  the  club  he  silently 
toasted  Kate's  bright  eyes  in  a  bumper  of  the  rarest  vin 
tage,  ^ffierward  he  set  out  for  a  stroll  with,  as  Kate 
on—" 

Miss  LORE  —  Excuse  me,  Mr.  Penne,  for  venturing 
a  suggestion;  but  don't  you  think  you  might  state  that  in 
a  less  coarse  manner? 

MR.  PENNE  (astounded)  —  Wh-wh  —  I'm  afraid,  I  fail 
to  understand  you. 

Miss  LORE  —  His  condition.  Why  not  say  he  was 
"full"  or  "intoxicated?"  It  would  sound  much  more 
elegant  than  the  way  you  express  it. 

MR.  PENNE  (stitt  darkly  wandering)  —  Will  you  kindly 
point  out,  Miss  Lore,  where  I  have  intimated  that  Cortland 
was  "full,"  if  you  prefer  that  word? 

Miss  LORE  (calmly  consulting  her  stenographic  notes)  — 
It  is  right  here,  word  for  word.  (Reads.)  "Afterward 
he  set  out  for  a  stroll  with  a  skate  on." 

MR.  PENNE  (with  peculiar  emphasis)  —  Ah !  And  now 
will  you  kindly  take  down  the  expurgated  phrase?  (Dic 
tates.)  "Afterward  he  set  out  for  a  stroll  with,  as  Kate  on 
one  occasion  had  fancifully  told,  him,  her  spirit  leaning 
upon  his  arm." 

Miss  LORE  —  Oh! 


144  Rolling  Stones 

MR.  PENNE  (dictates)  —  Chapter  thirty-four.    Heading 

—  "What  Kate  Found  in  the  Garden."     "That  fragrant 
summer  morning  brought  gracious  tasks  to  all.    The  bees 
were  at  the  honeysuckle  blossoms  on  the  porch.     Kate, 
singing  a  little  song,  was  training  the  riotous  branches 
of  her  favorite  woodbine.  The  sun,  himself,  had  rows— — " 

Miss  LORE  —  Shall  I  say  "had  risen"? 

MR.  PENNE  (very  slowly  and  with  desperate  deliberation) 

—  "The  —  sun  —  himself  —  had  —  rows  —  of  —  blush 
ing  —  pinks  —  and  —  hollyhocks  —  and  —  hyacinths  — 
waiting  —  that  —  he  —  might  —  dry  —  their  —  dew- 
drenched  —  cups." 

Miss  LORE  —  Oh! 

MR.  PENNE  (dictates')  —  "The  earliest  trolley,  scatter 
ing  the  birds  from  its  pathway  like  some  marauding  cat, 
brought  Cortland  over  from  Oldport.  He  had  forgotten 
his  fair " 

Miss  LORE  —  Hm !  Wonder  how  he  got  the  conductor 
to 

MR.  PENNE  (very  loudly)  —  "Forgotten  his  fair  and 
roseate  visions  of  the  night  in  the  practical  light  of  the 
sober  morn." 

Miss  LORE  —  Oh! 

MR.  PENNE  (dictates)  —  "  He  greeted  her  with  his  usual 
smile  and  manner.  'See  the  waves,'  he  cried,  pointing 
to  the  heaving  waters  of  the  sea,  'ever  wooing  and  return 
ing  to  the  rockbound  shore.'  "'Ready  to  break,'  Kate 
said,  with " 

Miss  LORE  —  My !    One  evening  he  has  his  arm  around 


Sound  and  Fury  145 

her,  and  the  next  morning  he's  ready  to  break  her  head.1 
Just  like  a  man! 

MR.  PENNE  (with  suspicious  calmness}  —  There  are 
times,  Miss  Lore,  when  a  man  becomes  so  far  exasperated 
that  even  a  woman But  suppose  we  finish  the  sen 
tence.  (Dictates.)  "'  Ready  to  break,'  JCate  said,  with 
the  thrilling  look  of  a  soul-awakened  woman,  'into  foam 
and  spray,  destroying  themselves  upon  the  shore  they  love 
so  well/" 

Miss  LORE  —  Oh! 

MR.  PENNE  (dictates)  —  "  Cortland,  in  Kate's  presence 
heard  faintly  the  voice  of  caution.  Thirty  years  had  not 
cooled  his  ardor.  It  was  in  his  power  to  bestow  great 
gifts  upon  this  girl.  He  still  retained  the  beliefs  that  he 
had  at  twenty."  (To  Miss  Lore,  wearily)  I  think  that 
will  be  enough  for  the  present. 

Miss  LORE  (wisely)  —  Well,  if  he  had  the  twenty  that 
he  believed  he  had,  it  might  buy  her  a  rather  nice  one. 

MR.  PENNE  (faintly)  —  The  last  sentence  was  my  own. 
We  will  discontinue  for  the  day,  Miss  Lore. 

Miss  LORE  —  Shall  I  come  again  to-morrow? 

MR.  PENNE  (helpless  under  the  spell)  —  If  you  will  b<* 
so  good. 

(Exit  Miss  Lore.) 

ASBESTOS  CURTAIN. 


TICTOCQ 

[These  two  farcical  stories  about  Tictocq  appeared  in  The 
Rolling  Stone.  They  are  reprinted  here  with  all  of  their  local 
references  because,  written  hurriedly  and  for  neighborly  reading, 
they  nevertheless  have  an  interest  for  the  admirer  of  O.  Henry. 
They  were  written  in  1894.] 

THE   GREAT   FRENCH   DETECTIVE,   IN   AUSTIN 

A  Successful  Political  Intrigue 

CHAPTER    I 

IT  IS  not  generally  known  that  Tictocq,  the  famous 
French  detective,  was  in  Austin  last  week.  He  registered 
at  the  Avenue  Hotel  under  an  assumed  name,  and  his 
quiet  and  reserved  manners  singled  him  out  at  once  for 
one  not  to  be  singled  out. 

No  one  knows  why  he  came  to  Austin,  but  to  one  or 
two  he  vouchsafed  the  information  that  his  mission  was 
an  important  one  from  the  French  Government. 

One  report  is  that  the  French  Minister  of  State  has  dis 
covered  an  old  statute  among  the  laws  of  the  empire, 
resulting  from  a  treaty  between  the  Emperor  Charlemagne 
and  Governor  Roberts  which  expressly  provides  for  the 
north  gate  of  the  Capitol  grounds  being  kept  open,  but 
this  is  merely  a  conjecture. 

146 


Tictocq  147 

Last  Wednesday  afternoon  a  well-dressed  gentleman 
knocked  at  the  door  of  Tictocq's  room  in  the  hotel. 

The  detective  opened  the  door. 

*'  Monsieur  Tictocq,  I  believe,"  said  the  gentleman. 

"You  will  see  on  the  register  that  I  sign  my  name  Q.  X. 
Jones,"  said  Tictocq,  "and  gentlemen  would  understand 
that  I  wish  to  be  known  as  such.  If  you  do  not  like  being 
referred  to  as  no  gentleman,  I  will  give  you  satisfaction 
any  time  after  July  1st,  and  fight  Steve  O'Donnell,  John 
McDonald,  and  Ignatius  Donnelly  in  the  meantime  if  you 
desire." 

"  I  do  not  mind  it  in  the  least,"  said  the  gentleman.  "In 
fact,  I  am  accustomed  to  it.  I  am  Chairman  of  the  Demo 
cratic  Executive  Committee,  Platform  No.  2,  and  I  have 
a  friend  in  trouble.  I  knew  you  were  Tictocq  from  your 
resemblance  to  yourself." 

"Entrez  vous,"  said  the  detective. 

The  gentleman  entered  and  was  handed  a  chair. 

"I  am  a  man  of  few  words,"  said  Tictocq.  "I  will  help 
your  friend  if  possible.  Our  countries  are  great  friends. 
We  have  given  you  Lafayette  and  French  fried  potatoes. 
You  have  given  us  California  champagne  and  —  taken 
back  Ward  McAllister.  State  your  case." 

"  I  will  be  very  brief,"  said  the  visitor.  "  In  room  No.  76 
in  this  hotel  is  stopping  a  prominent  Populist  Candid*  xe. 
He  is  alone.  Last  night  some  one  stole  his  socks.  They 
cannot  be  found.  If  they  are  not  recovered,  his  party 
will  attribute  their  loss  to  the  Democracy.  They  will 
make  great  capital  of  the  burglary,  although  I  am  sure 


148  Rolling  Stones 

it  was  not  a  political  move  at  all.  The  socks  must  be 
recovered.  You  are  the  only  man  that  can  do  it." 

Tictocq  bowed. 

"Am  I  to  have  carte  blanche  to  question  every  person 
connected  with  the  hotel?  " 

"The  proprietor  has  already  been  spoken  to.  Every 
thing  and  everybody  is  at  your  service." 

Tictocq  consulted  his  watch. 

"  Come  to  this  room  to-morrow  afternoon  at  6  o'clock 
with  the  landlord,  the  Populist  Candidate,  and  any  other 
witnessess  elected  from  both  parties,  and  I  will  return 
the  socks." 

"Bien,  Monsieur;  schlafen  sie  wohl." 

"Au  revoir." 

The  Chairman  of  the  Democratic  Executive  Committee. 
Platform  No.  2,  bowed  courteously  and  withdrew. 

Tictocq  sent  for  the  bell  boy. 

"Did  you  go  to  room  76  last  night?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Who  was  there?" 

"An  old  hayseed  what  come  on  the  7: 25." 

"What  did  he  want?" 

"The  bouncer." 

"What  for?" 

"To  put  the  light  out." 

"Did  you  take  anything  while  in  the  room?" 

"No,  he  didn't  ask  me." 

"  What  is  your  name  ?  " 


Tictocq  149 

"Jim." 
"You  can  go." 

CHAPTER   II 

The  drawing-rooms  of  one  of  the  most  magnificent  pri 
vate  residences  in  Austin  are  a  blaze  of  lights.  Carriages 
line  the  streets  in  front,  and  from  gate  to  doorway  is 
spread  a  velvet  carpet,  on  which  the  delicate  feet  of  the 
guests  may  tread. 

The  occasion  is  the  entree  into  society  of  one  of  the  fair 
est  buds  in  the  City  of  the  Violet  Crown.  The  rooms  are 
filled  with  the  culture,  the  beauty,  the  youth  and  fashion 
of  society.  Austin  society  is  acknowledged  to  be  the 
wittiest,  the  most  select,  and  the  highest  bred  to  be  found 
southwest  of  Kansas  City. 

Mrs.  Rutabaga  St.  Vitus,  the  hostess,  is  accustomed  to 
draw  around  her  a  circle  of  talent,  and  beauty,  rarely 
equalled  anywhere.  Her  evenings  come  nearer  approach 
ing  the  dignity  of  a  salon  than  any  occasion,  except,  per 
haps,  a  Tony  Faust  and  Marguerite  reception  at  the  Iron 
Front. 

Miss  St.  Vitus,  whose  advent  into  society's  maze  was 
heralded  by  such  an  auspicious  display  of  hospitality,  is  a 
slender  brunette,  with  large,  lustrous  eyes,  a  winning  smile, 
and  a  charming  ingenue  manner.  She  wears  a  china  silk, 
cut  princesse,  with  diamond  ornaments,  and  a  couple  of 
towels  inserted  in  the  back  to  conceal  prominence  of 
shoulder  blades.  She  is  chatting  easily  and  naturally  on 
a  plush  covered  tete-a-tete  with  Harold  St.  Clair,  the  agent 


150  Rolling  Stones 

for  a  Minneapolis  pants  company.  Her  friend  and  school 
mate,  Elsie  Hicks,  who  married  three  drummers  in  one 
day,  a  week  or  two  before,  and  won  a  wager  of  two  dozen 
bottles  of  Budweiser  from  the  handsome  and  talented 
young  hack-driver,  Bum  Smithers,  is  promenading  in  and 
out  the  low  French  windows  with  Ethelbert  Windup,  the 
popular  young  candidate  for  hide  inspector,  whose  name 
is  familiar  to  every  one  who  reads  police  court  reports. 

Somewhere,  concealed  by  shrubbery,  a  band  is  playing, 
and  during  the  pauses  in  conversation,  onions  can  be 
smelt  frying  in  the  kitchen. 

Happy  laughter  rings  out  from  ruby  lips,  handsome 
faces  grow  tender  as  they  bend  over  white  necks  and  droop 
ing  heads;  timid  eyes  convey  things  that  lips  dare  not 
speak,  and  beneath  silken  bodice  and  broadcloth,  hearts 
beat  time  to  the  sweet  notes  of  "Love's  Young  Dream." 

"And  where  have  you  been  for  some  time  past,  you 
recreant  cavalier?  "  says  Miss  St.  Vitus  to  Harold  St.  Clair. 
"Have  you  been  worshipping  at  another  shrine?  Are  you 
recreant  to  your  whilom  friends?  Speak,  Sir  Knight,  and 
defend  yourself." 

"Oh,  come  off,"  says  Harold,  in  his  deep,  musical  bari 
tone;  "I've  been  having  a  devil  of  a  time  fitting  pants  on 
a  lot  of  bow-legged  jays  from  the  cotton-patch.  Got 
knobs  on  their  legs,  some  of  'em  big  as  gourds,  and  all 
expect  a  fit.  Did  you  ever  try  to  measure  a  bow-legged  — 
I  mean  —  can't  you  imagine  what  a  jam-swizzled  time 
I  have  getting  pants  to  fit  'em?  Business  dull  too,  nobody 
wants  'em  over  three  dollars." 


Tictocq  151 

"You  witty  boy,"  says  Miss  St.  Vitus.  "Just  as  full 
of  bon  mots  and  clever  sayings  as  ever.  What  do  you 
take  now?" 

"Oh,  beer." 

"Give  me  your  arm  and  let's  go  into  the  drawing-room 
and  draw  a  cork.  I'm  chewing  a  little  cotton  myself." 

Arm  in  arm,  the  handsome  couple  pass  across  the  room, 
the  cynosure  of  all  eyes.  Luderic  Hetherington,  the  rising 
and  gifted  night-watchman  at  the  Lone  Star  slaughter 
house,  and  Mabel  Grubb,  the  daughter  of  the  millionaire 
owner  of  the  Humped-backed  Camel  saloon,  are  standing 
under  the  oleanders  as  they  go  by. 

"She  is  very  beautiful,"  says  Luderic. 

"Rats,"  says  Mabel. 

A  keen  observer  would  have  noted  all  this  time  the 
figure  of  a  solitary  man  who  seemed  to  avoid  the  company, 
but  by  adroit  changing  of  his  position,  and  perfectly  cool 
and  self-possessed  manner,  avoided  drawing  any  especial 
attention  to  himself. 

The  lion  of  the  evening  is  Herr  Professor  Ludwig  von 
Bum,  the  pianist. 

He  had  been  found  drinking  beer  in  a  saloon  on  East 
Pecan  Street  by  Colonel  St.  Vitus  about  a  week  before,  and 
according  to  the  Austin  custom  in  such  cases,  was  invited 
home  by  the  colonel,  and  the  next  day  accepted  into 
society,  with  large  music  classes  at  his  service. 

Professor  von  Bum  is  playing  the  lovely  symphony 
in  G  minor  from  Beethoven's  "Songs  Without  Music." 
The  grand  chords  fill  the  room  with  exquisite  harmony. 


152  Rolling  Stones 

He  plays  the  extremely  difficult  passages  in  the  obligate 
home  run  in  a  masterly  manner,  and  when  he  finishes  with 
that  grand  te  deum  with  arpeggios  on  the  side,  there  is 
that  complete  hush  in  the  room  that  is  dearer  to  the  artist's 
heart  than  the  loudest  applause. 

The  professor  looks  around. 

The  room  is  empty. 

Empty  with  the  exception  of  Tictocq,  the  great  French 
detective,  who  springs  from  behind  a  mass  of  tropical 
plants  to  his  side. 

The  professor  rises  in  alarm. 

"Hush,"  says  Tictocq:  "Make  no  noise  at  all.  You 
have  already  made  enough." 

Footsteps  are  heard  outside. 

"  Be  quick/'  says  Tictocq :  "  give  me  those  socks.  There 
is  not  a  moment  to  spare." 

"Vas  sagst  du?" 

"Ah,  he  confesses,"  says  Tictocq.  "  No  socks  will  do  but 
those  you  carried  off  from  the  Populist  Candidate's  room." 

The  company  is  returning,  no  longer  hearing  the  music. 

Tictocq  hesitates  not.  He  seizes  the  professor,  throws 
him  upon  the  floor,  tears  off  his  shoes  and  socks,  and 
escapes  with  the  latter  through  the  open  window  into 
the  garden. 

CHAPTER    III 

Tictocq's  room  in  the  Avenue  Hotel. 

A  knock  is  heard  at  the  door. 

Tictocq  opens  it  and  looks  at  his  watch. 


Tictocq  153 

"Ah,"  he  says,  "it  is  just  six.     Entrez,  Messieurs." 

The  messieurs  entrez.  There  are  seven  of  them;  the 
Populist  Candidate  who  is  there  by  invitation,  not  knowing 
for  what  purpose;  the  chairman  of  the  Democratic  Execu 
tive  Committee,  platform  No.  2,  the  hotel  proprietor,  and 
three  or  four  Democrats  and  Populists,  as  near  as  could 
be  found  out. 

"I  don't  know,"  begins  the  Populist  Candidate,  "what 
in  the  h " 

"Excuse  me,"  says  Tictocq,  firmly.  "You  will  oblige 
me  by  keeping  silent  until  I  make  my  report.  I  have  been 
employed  in  this  case,  and  I  have  unravelled  it.  For  the 
honor  of  France  I  request  that  I  be  heard  with  attention." 

"Certainly,"  says  the  chairman;  "we  will  be  pleased  to 
listen." 

Tictocq  stands  in  the  centre  of  the  room.  The  electric 
light  burns  brightly  above  him.  He  seems  the  incarnation 
of  alertness,  vigor,  cleverness,  and  cunning. 

The  company  seat  themselves  in  chairs  along  the  wall. 

"When  informed  of  the  robbery,"  begins  Tictocq,  "I 
first  questioned  the  bell  boy.  He  knew  nothing.  I  went 
to  the  police  headquarters.  They  knew  nothing.  I  in 
vited  one  of  them  to  the  bar  to  drink.  He  said  there  used 
to  be  a  little  colored  boy  in  the  Tenth  Ward  who  stole 
things  and  kept  them  for  recovery  by  the  police,  but  failed 
to  be  at  the  place  agreed  upon  for  arrest  one  time,  and  had 
been  sent  to  jail. 

"I  then  began  to  think.  I  reasoned.  No  man,  said 
I,  would  carry  a  Populist's  socks  in  his  pocket  without 


154  Rolling  Stones 

wrapping  them  up.  He  would  not  want  to  do  so  in  the 
hotel.  He  would  want  a  paper.  Where  would  he  get 
one?  At  the  Statesman  office,  of  course.  I  went  there. 
A  young  man  with  his  hair  combed  down  on  his  forehead 
sat  behind  the  desk.  I  knew  he  was  writing  society  items, 
for  a  young  lady's  slipper,  a  piece  of  cake,  a  fan,  a  half 
emptied  bottle  of  cocktail,  a  bunch  of  roses,  and  a  police 
whistle  lay  on  the  desk  before  him. 

"Can  you  tell  me  if  a  man  purchased  a  paper  here  in 
the  last  three  months?"  I Isaid. 

"Yes,"  he  replied;  "we  sold  one  last  night." 

"Can  you  describe  the  man?" 

"Accurately.  He  had  blue  whiskers,  a  wart  between 
his  shoulder  blades,  a  touch  of  colic,  and  an  occupation 
tax  on  his  breath." 

"Which  way  did  he  go?" 

"Out." 

"I  then  went " 

"Wait  a  minute,"  said  the  Populist  Candidate,  rising; 
"I  don't  see  why  in  the  h " 

"Once  more  I  must  beg  that  you  will  be  silent,"  said 
Tictocq,  rather  sharply.  "You  should  not  interrupt  me 
in  the  midst  of  my  report." 

"I  made  one  false  arrest,"  continued  Tictocq.  "I  was 
passing  two  finely  dressed  gentlemen  on  the  street,  when 
one  of  them  remarked  that  he  had  'stole  his  socks.'  I 
handcuffed  him  and  dragged  him  to  a  lighted  store,  when 
his  companion  explained  to  me  that  he  was  somewhat 
intoxicated  and  his  tongue  was  not  entirely  manageable. 


Tictocq  155 

He  had  been  speaking  of  some  business  transaction,  and 
what  he  intended  to  say  was  that  he  had  'sold  his  stocks.' 

"I  then  released  him. 

"An  hour  afterward  I  passed  a  saloon,  and  saw  this 
Professor  von  Bum  drinking  beer  at  a  table.  I  knew  him 
in  Paris.  I  said  'here  is  my  man.'  He  worshipped 
Wagner,  lived  on  limburger  cheese,  beer,  and  credit,  and 
would  have  stolen  anybody's  socks.  I  shadowed  him 
to  the  reception  at  Colonel  St.  Vitus's,  and  in  an  opportune 
moment  I  seized  him  and  tore  the  socks  from  his  feet. 
There  they  are." 

With  a  dramatic  gesture,  Tictocq  threw  a  pair  of  dingy 
socks  upon  the  table,  folded  his  arms,  and  threw  back  his 
head. 

With  a  loud  cry  of  rage,  the  Populist  Candidate  sprang 
once  more  to  his  feet. 

"Goldarnit!    I  WILL  say  what  I  want  to.     I- 

The  two  other  Populists  in  the  room  gazed  at  him  coldly 
and  sternly. 

"Is  this  tale  true?  "  they  demanded  of  the  Candidate. 

"No,  by  gosh,  it  ain't!"  he  replied,  pointing  a  trembling 
finger  at  the  Democratic  Chairman.  "There  stands  the 
man  who  has  concocted  the  whole  scheme.  It  is  an  infer 
nal,  unfair  political  trick  to  lose  votes  for  our  party.  How 
far  has  this  thing  gone?"  he  added,  turning  savagely  to 
the  detective. 

"All  the  newspapers  have  my  wrjtten  report  on  the 
matter,  and  the  Statesman  will  have  it  in  plate  matter 
next  week,"  said  Tictocq,  complacently. 


156  Rolling  Stones 

"All  is  lost!"  said  the  Populists,  turning  toward  the 
door. 

"For  God's  sake,  my  friends,"  pleaded  the  Candidate, 
following  them;  "listen  to  me;  I  swear  before  high  heaven 
that  I  never  wore  a  pair  of  socks  in  my  life.  It  is  all  a 
devilish  campaign  lie." 

The  Populists  turn  their  backs. 

"The  damage  is  already  done,"  they  said.  "The 
people  have  heard  the  story.  You  have  yet  time  to  with 
draw  decently  before  the  race." 

All  left  the  room  except  Tictocq  and  the  Democrats. 

"Let's  all  go  down  and  open  a  bottle  of  fizz  on  the 
Finance  Committee,"  said  the  Chairman  of  the  Executive 
Committee,  Platform  No.  2. 


TRACKED  TO  DOOM 

OR 
THE  MYSTERY  OF  THE  RUE  DE  PEYCHAUD 

TlS  midnight  in  Paris. 

A  myriad  of  lamps  that  line  the  Champs  Ely  sees  and 
the  Rouge  et  Noir,  cast  their  reflection  in  the  dark  waters 
of  the  Seine  as  it  flows  gloomily  past  the  Place  Venddme 
and  the  black  walls  of  the  Convent  Notadam. 

The  great  French  capital  is  astir. 

It  is  the  hour  when  crime  and  vice  and  wickedness 
reign. 

Hundreds  of  fiacres  drive  madly  through  the  streets 
conveying  women,  flashing  with  jewels  and  as  beautiful 
as  dreams,  from  opera  and  concert,  and  the  little  bijou 
supper  rooms  of  the  Cafe  Tout  le  Temps  are  filled  with 
laughing  groups,  while  bon  mots,  persiflage  and  repartee 
fly  upon  the  air  —  the  jewels  of  thought  and  conver 
sation. 

Luxury  and  poverty  brush  each  other  in  the  streets.  , 
The  homeless  gamin,  begging  a  sou  with  which  to  pur 
chase  a  bed,  and  the  spendthrift  roue",  scattering  golden 
louis  d'or,  tread  the  same  pavement. 

When  other  cities  sleep,  Paris  has  just  begun  her  wild 
revelry. 

157 


158  Rolling  Stones 

The  first  scene  of  our  story  is  a  cellar  beneath 
Rue  de  Peychaud. 

The  room  is  filled  with  smoke  of  pipes,  and  is  stifling 
with  the  reeking  breath  of  its  inmates.  A  single  flaring 
gas  jet  dimly  lights  the  scene,  which  is  one  Rembrandt 
or  Moreland  and  Keisel  would  have  loved  to  paint. 

A  gargon  is  selling  absinthe  to  such  of  the  motley 
crowd  as  have  a  few  sous,  dealing  it  out  in  niggardly 
portions  in  broken  teacups. 

Leaning  against  the  bar  is  Carnaignole  Cusheau  — 
generally  known  as  the  Gray  Wolf. 

He  is  the  worst  man  in  Paris. 

He  is  more  than  four  feet  ten  in  height,  and  his  sharp, 
ferocious  looking  face  and  the  mass  of  long,  tangled  gray 
hair  that  covers  his  face  and  head,  have  earned  for  him 
the  name  he  bears. 

His  striped  blouse  is  wide  open  at  the  neck  and  falls 
outside  of  his  dingy  leather  trousers.  The  handle  of  a 
deadly  looking  knife  protrudes  from  his  belt.  One  stroke 
of  its  blade  would  open  a  box  of  the  finest  French  sardines. 

"Voila,  Gray  Wolf,"  cries  Couteau,  the  bartender. 
"How  many  victims  to-day?  There  is  no  blood  upon 
your  hands.  Has  the  Gray  Wolf  forgotten  how  to  bite?" 

"Sacre  Bleu,  Mille  Tonnerre,  by  George,"  hisses  the 
Gray  Wolf.  "Monsieur  Couteau,  you  are  bold  indeed 
to  speak  to  me  thus. 

"By  Ventre  St.  Gris!  I  have  not  even  dined  to-day. 
Spoils  indeed.  There  is  no  living  in  Paris  now.  But 
one  rich  American  have  I  garroted  in  a  fortnight. 


Tracked  to  Doom  159 

*  those  Democrats.  They  have  ruined  the  country. 
"With  their  income  tax  and  their  free  trade,  they  have 
destroyed  the  millionaire  business.  Carrambo!  Diable! 
D  —  n  it!" 

"Hist!"  suddenly  says  Chamounix  the  rag-picker, 
who  is  worth  20,000,000  francs,  "some  one  comes!" 

The  cellar  door  opened  and  a  man  crept  softly  down 
the  rickety  steps.  The  crowd  watches  him  with  silent 
awe. 

He  went  to  the  bar,  laid  his  card  on  the  counter,  bought 
a  drink  of  absinthe,  and  then  drawing  from  his  pocket  a 
little  mirror,  set  it  up  on  the  counter  and  proceeded  to 
don  a  false  beard  and  hair  and  paint  his  face  into  wrinkles, 
until  he  closely  resembled  an  old  man  seventy-one  years 
of  age. 

He  then  went  into  a  dark  corner  and  watched  the 
crowd  of  people  with  sharp,  ferret-like  eyes. 

Gray  Wolf  slipped  cautiously  to  the  bar  and  examined 
the  card  left  by  the  newcomer. 

"Holy  Saint  Bridget!"  he  exclaims.  "It  is  Tictocq, 
the  detective." 

Ten  minutes  later  a  beautiful  woman  enters  the  cellar. 

Tenderly  nurtured,  and  accustomed  to  every  luxury 
that  money  could  procure,  she  had,  when  a  young  vi- 
vandiere  at  the  Convent  of  Saint  Susan  de  la  Montarde, 
run  away  with  the  Gray  Wolf,  fascinated  by  his  many 
crimes  and  the  knowledge  that  his  business  never  allowed 
him  to  scrape  his  feet  in  the  hall  or  snore. 

"Parbleu,    Marie,"    snarls    the    Gray    Wolf.      "Que 


160  Rolling  Stones 

voulez  vous?  Avez-vous  le  beau  cheval  de  mon  frere, 
ou  le  joli  chien  de  votre  pere?" 

"No,  no,  Gray  Wolf,"  shouts  the  motley  group  of 
assassins;  rogues  and  pickpockets,  even  their  hardened 
hearts  appalled  at  his  fearful  words.  "Mon  Dieu!  You 
cannot  be  so  cruel!" 

"Tiens!"  shouts  the  Gray  Wolf,  now  maddened  to 
desperation,  and  drawing  his  gleaming  knife.  "Voila! 
Canaille!  Tout  le  monde,  carte  blanche  enbonpoint  sauve 
que  peut  entre  nous  revenez  nous  a  nous  moutous!" 

The  horrified  sans-culottes  shrink  back  in  terror  as  the 
Gray  Wolf  seizes  Maria  by  the  hair  and  cuts  her  into 
twenty-nine  pieces,  each  exactly  the  same  size. 

As  he  stands  with  reeking  hands  above  the  corpse, 
amid  a  deep  silence,  the  old,  gray-bearded  man  who  has 
been  watching  the  scene  springs  forward,  tears  off  his 
false  beard  and  locks,  and  Tictocq,  the  famous  French 
detective,  stands  before  them. 

Spellbound  and  immovable,  the  denizens  of  the  cellar 
gaze  at  the  greatest  modern  detective  as  he  goes  about  the 
customary  duties  of  his  office. 

He  first  measures  the  .distance  from  the  murdered 
woman  to  a  point  on  the  wall,  then  he  takes  down  the 
name  of  the  bartender  and  the  day  of  the  month  and  the 
year.  Then  drawing  from  his  pocket  a  powerful  micro 
scope,  he  examines  a  little  of  the  blood  that  stands  upon 
the  floor  in  little  pools. 

"Mon  Dieu!"  he  mutters,  "it  is  as  I  feared  —  human 
blood." 


Tracked  to  Doom  161 

He  then  enters  rapidly  in  a  memorandum  book  the 
result  of  his  investigations,  and  leaves  the  cellar. 

Tictocq  bends  his  rapid  steps  in  the  direction  of  the 
headquarters  of  the  Paris  gendarmerie,  but  suddenly 
pausing,  he  strikes  his  hand  upon  his  brow  with  a  gesture 
of  impatience. 

''Mille  tonnerre,"  he  mutters.  "I  should  have  asked 
the  name  of  that  man  with  the  knife  in  his  hand." 


It  is  reception  night  at  the  palace  of  the  Duchess 
Valerie  du  Bellairs. 

The  apartments  are  flooded  with  a  mellow  light  from 
paraffine  candles  in  solid  silver  candelabra. 

The  company  is  the  most  aristocratic  and  wealthy  in 
Paris. 

Three  or  four  brass  bands  are  playing  behind  a  portiere 
between  the  coal  shed,  and  also  behind  time.  Footmen 
in  gay -laced  livery  bring  in  beer  noiselessly  and  carry  out 
apple-peelings  dropped  by  the  guests. 

Valerie,  seventh  Duchess  du  Bellairs,  leans  back  on  a 
solid  gold  ottoman  on  eiderdown  cushions,  surrounded  by 
the  wittiest,  the  bravest,  and  the  handsomest  courtiers  in 
the  capital. 

"Ah,  madame,"  said  the  Prince  Champvilliers,  of  Palais 
Roy  ale,  corner  of  Seventy- third  Street,  "as  Montes- 
quiaux  says,  'Rien  de  plus  bon  tutti  frutti '  -  -  Youth 
seems  your  inheritance.  You  are  to-night  the  most 
beautiful,  the  wittiest  in  your  own  salon.  I  can  scarce 


162  Rolling  Stones 

believe  my  own  senses,  when  I  remember  that  thirty-one 

years  ago  you " 

•.,  "Saw  it  off!"  says  the  Duchess  peremptorily. 

The  Prince  bows  low,  and  drawing  a  jewelled  dagger, 
stabs  himself  to  the  heart. 

"The  displeasure  of  your  grace  is  worse  than  death," 
he  says,  as  he  takes  his  overcoat  and  hat  from  a  corner  of 
the  mantelpiece  and  leaves  the  room, 

"Voila,"  says  Beebe  Frangillon,  fanning  herself  lan 
guidly.  "That  is  the  way  with  men.  Flatter  them,  and 
they  kiss  your  hand.  Loose  but  a  moment  the  silken 
leash  that  holds  them  captive  through  their  vanity  and 
self-opinionativeness,  and  the  son-of-a-gun  gets  on  his 
ear  at  once.  The  devil  go  with  him,  I  say." 

"Ah,  mon  Princesse,"  sighs  the  Count  Pumpernickel, 
stooping  and  whispering  with  eloquent  eyes  into  her  ear. 
"You  are  too  hard  upon  us.  Balzac  says,  'All  women  are 
not  to  themselves  what  no  one  else  is  to  another/  Do 
you  not  agree  with  him?" 

"Cheese  it!"  says  the  Princess.  "Philosophy  palls 
upon  me.  I'll  shake  you." 

"Hosses?"  says  the  Count. 

Arm  and  arm  they  go  out  to  the  salon  au  Beurre. 

Armande  de  Fleury,  the  young  pianissimo  danseuse 
from  the  Folies  Bergere  is  about  to  sing. 

She  slightly  clears  her  throat  and  lays  a  voluptuous 
cud  of  chewing  gum  upon  the  piano  as  the  first  notes  of 
the  accompaniment  ring  through  the  salon. 

As  she  prepares  to  sing,  the  Duchess  du  Bellairs  grasps 


Tracked  to  Doom  163 

the  arm  of  her  ottoman  in  a  vice-like  grip,  and  she  watches 
with  an  expression  of  almost  anguished  suspense. 

She  scarcely  breathes. 

Then,  as  Armande  de  Fleury,  before  uttering  a  note, 
reels,  wavers,  turns  white  as  snow  and  falls  dead  upon  the 
floor,  the  Duchess  breathes  a  sigh  of  relief. 

The  Duchess  had  poisoned  her. 

Then  the  guests  crowd  about  the  piano,  gazing  with 
bated  breath,  and  shuddering  as  they  look  upon  the  music 
rack  and  observe  that  the  song  that  Armande  came  so 
near  singing  is  "  Sweet  Marie.*' 

Twenty  minutes  later  a  dark  and  muffled  figure  was 
seen  to  emerge  from  a  recess  in  the  mullioned  wall  of  the 
Arc  de  Triomphe  and  pass  rapidly  northward. 

It  was  no  other  than  Tictocq,  the  detective. 

The  network  of  evidence  was  fast  being  drawn  about 
the  murderer  of  Marie  Cusheau. 


It  is  midnight  on  the  steeple  of  the  Cathedral  of  Nota- 
dam. 

It  is  also  the  same  time  at  other  given  points  in  the 
vicinity. 

The  spire  of  the  Cathedral  is  20,000  feet  above  the 
pavement,  and  a  casual  observer,  by  making  a  rapid 
mathematical  calculation,  would  have  readily  perceived 
that  this  Cathedral  is,  at  least,  double  the  height  of  others 
that  measure  only  10,000  feet. 

At  the  summit  of  the  spire  there  is  a  little  wooden 


164  Rolling  Stones 

platform  on  which  there  is  room  for  but  one  man  to 
stand. 

Crouching  on  this  precarious  footing,  which  swayed, 
dizzily  with  every  breeze  that  blew,  was  a  man  closely 
muffled,  and  disguised  as  a  wholesale  grocer. 

Old  Frangois  Beongfallong,  the  great  astronomer,  who 
is  studying  the  sidereal  spheres  from  his  attic  window  in 
the  Rue  de  Bologny,  shudders  as  he  turns  his  telescope 
upon  the  solitary  figure  upon  the  spire. 

"Sacre  Bleu!"  he  hisses  between  his  new  celluloid 
teeth.  "It  is  Tictocq,  the  detective.  I  wonder  whom 
he  is  following  now?" 

While  Tictocq  is  watching  with  lynx-like  eyes  the  hill 
of  Montmartre,  he  suddenly  hears  a  heavy  breathing 
beside  him,  and  turning,  gazes  into  the  ferocious  eyes  of 
the  Gray  Wolf. 

Carnaignole  Cusheau  had  put  on  his  W.  U.  Tel.  Co. 
climbers  and  climbed  the  steeple. 

"Parbleu,  monsieur,"  says  Tictocq.  "To  whom  am  I 
indebted  for  the  honor  of  this  visit?" 

The  Gray  Wolf  smiled  softly  and  depreciatingly. 

"You  are  Tictocq,  the  detective?"  he  said. 

"I  am." 

"Then  listen.  I  am  the  murderer  of  Marie  Cusheau. 
She  was  my  wife  and  she  had  cold  feet  and  ate  onions. 
What  was  I  to  do?  Yet  life  is  sweet  to  me.  I  do  not 
wish  to  be  guillotined.  I  nave  heard  that  you  are  on  my 
track.  Is  it  true  that  the  case  is  in  your  hands?" 

"It  is." 


Tracked  to  Doom  165 

"Thank  le  bon  Dieu,  then,  I  am  saved." 
The  Gray  Wolf  carefully  adjusts  the  climbers  on  his 
feet  and  descends  the  spire. 

Tictocq  takes  out  his  notebook  and  writes  in  it. 
"At  last,"  he  says,  "I  have  a  clue." 


Monsieur  le  Compte  Carnaignole  Cusheau,  once  known 
as  the  Gray  Wolf,  stands  in  the  magnificent  drawing-room 
of  his  palace  on  East  47th  Street. 

Three  days  after  his  confession  to  Tictocq,  he  happened 
to  look  in  the  pockets  of  a  discarded  pair  of  pants  and 
found  twenty  million  francs  in  gold. 

Suddenly  the  door  opens  and  Tictocq,  the  detective, 
with  a  dozen  gensd'arme,  enters  the  room. 

"You  are  my  prisoners,"  says  the  detective. 

"On  what  charge?" 

"The  murder  of  Marie  Cusheau  on  the  night  of  August 
17th." 

"Your  proofs?" 

"I  saw  you  do  it,  and  your  own  confession  on  the  spire 
of  Notadam." 

The  Count  laughed  and  took  a  paper  from  his  pocket. 

"Read  this,"  he  said,  "here  is  proof  that  Marie  Cusheau 
died  of  heart  failure." 

Tictocq  looked  at  the  paper. 

It  was  a  check  for  100,000  francs. 

Tictocq  dismissed  the  gensd'arme  with  a  wave  of  his 
hand. 


166  Rolling  Stones 

"•We  have  made  a  mistake,  monsieurs,"  he  said,  but 
as  he  turns  to  leave  the  room,  Count  Carnaignole  stops 
him. 

"One  moment,  monsieur." 

The  Count  Carnaignole  tears  from  his  own  face  a  false 
beard  and  reveals  the  flashing  eyes  and  well-known 
features  of  Tictocq,  the  detective. 

Then,  springing  forward,  he  snatches  a  wig  and  false 
eyebrows  from  his  visitor,  and  the  Gray  Wolf,  grinding 
his  teeth  in  rage,  stands  before  him. 

The  murderer  of  Marie  Cusheau  was  never  discovered. 


A  SNAPSHOT  AT  THE  PRESIDENT 

[This  is  the  kind  of  waggish  editorial  O.  Henry  was  writing  in  1894 
for  the  readers  of  The  Rolling  Stone.  The  reader  will  do  well  to  remem 
ber  that  the  paper  was  for  local  consumption  and  that  the  allusions  are 
to  a  very  special  place  and  time.] 

( It  will  be  remembered  that  about  a  month  ago  there  were  special 
rates  offered  to  the  public  for  a  round  trip  to  the  City  of  Washington. 
The  price  of  the  ticket  being  exceedingly  low,  we  secured  a  loan  of 
twenty  dollars  from  a  public-spirited  citizen  of  Austin,  by  mortgaging 
our  press  and  cow,  with  the  additional  security  of  our  brother's  name, 
and  a  slight  draught  on  Major  Hutchinson  for  $4,000. 

We  purchased  a  round  trip  ticket,  two  loaves  of  Vienna  bread,  and 
quite  a  large  piece  of  cheese,  which  we  handed  to  a  member  of  our 
reportorial  staff,  with  instructions  to  go  to  Washington,  interview  Presi 
dent  Cleveland,  and  get  a  scoop,  if  possible,  on  all  other  Texas  papers. 

Our  reporter  came  in  yesterday  morning,  via  the  Manor  dirt  road, 
with  a  large  piece  of  folded  cotton  bagging  tied  under  each  foot. 

It  seems  that  he  lost  his  ticket  in  Washington,  and  having  divided 
the  Vienna  bread  and  cheese  with  some  disappointed  office  seekers  who 
were  coming  home  by  the  same  route,  he  arrived  home  hungry,  desiring 
food,  and  with  quite  an  appetite. 

Although  somewhat  late,  we  give  his  description  of  his  interview  with 
President  Cleveland.) 

I  AM  chief  reporter  on  the  staff  of  The  Rolling  Stone. 

About  a  month  ago  the  managing  editor  came  into  the 
room  where  we  were  both  sitting  engaged  in  conversation 
and  said: 

"Oh,  by  the  way,  go  to  Washington  and  interview 
President  Cleveland." 

167 


168  Rolling  Stones 

"All  right,"  said  I.     "Take  care  of  yourself." 

Five  minutes  later  I  was  seated  in  a  palatial  drawing- 
room  car  bounding  up  and  down  quite  a  good  deal  on  the 
elastic  plush-covered  seat. 

I  shall  not  linger  upon  the  incidents  of  the  journey.  I 
was  given  carte  blanche  to  provide  myself  with  every  com 
fort,  and  to  spare  no  expense  that  I  could  meet.  For  the 
regalement  of  my  inside  the  preparations  had  been  lavish. 
Both  Vienna  and  Germany  had  been  called  upon  to  furnish 
dainty  viands  suitable  to  my  palate. 

I  changed  cars  and  shirts  once  only  on  the  journey.  A 
stranger  wanted  me  to  also  change  a  two-dollar  bill,  but  I 
haughtily  declined. 

The  scenery  along  the  entire  road  to  Washington  is 
diversified.  You  find  a  portion  of  it  on  one  hand  by 
looking  out  of  the  window,  and  upon  turning  the  gaze  upon 
the  other  side  the  eye  is  surprised  and  delighted  by  dis 
covering  some  more  of  it. 

There  were  a  great  many  Knights  of  Pythias  on  the  train. 
One  of  them  insisted  upon  my  giving  him  the  grip  I  had 
with  me,  but  he  was  unsuccessful. 

On  arriving  in  Washington,  which  city  I  instantly  rec 
ognized  from  reading  the  history  of  George,  I  left  the 
car  so  hastily  that  I  forgot  to  fee  Mr.  Pullman's  represen 
tative. 

I  went  immediately  to  the  Capitol. 

In  a  spirit  of  jeu  d'esprit  I  had  had  made  a  globular 
representation  of  a  "rolling  stone."  It  was  of  wood, 
painted  a  dark  color,  and  about  the  size  of  a  small  cannon 


A  Snapshot  at  the  President  169 

ball.  I  had  attached  to  it  a  twisted  pendant  about  three 
inches  long  to  indicate  moss.  I  had  resolved  to  use  this 
in  place  of  a  card,  thinking  people  would  readily  recognize 
it  as  an  emblem  of  my  paper. 

I  had  studied  the  arrangement  of  the  Capitol,  and 
walked  directly  to  Mr.  Cleveland's  private  office. 

I  met  a  servant  in  the  hall,  and  held  up  my  card  to  him 
smilingly. 

I  saw  his  hair  rise  on  his  head,  and  he  ran  like  a  deer 
to  the  door,  and,  lying  down,  rolled  down  the  long  flight 
of  steps  into  the  yard. 

"Ah,"  said  I  to  myself,  "he  is  one  of  our  delinquent 
subscribers." 

A  little  farther  along  I  met  the  President's  private 
secretary,  who  had  been  writing  a  tariff  letter  and  clean 
ing  a  duck  gun  for  Mr.  Cleveland. 

When  I  showed  him  the  emblem  of  my  paper  he  sprang 
out  of  a  high  window  into  a  hothouse  filled  with  rare 
flowers. 

This  somewhat  surprised  me. 

I  examined  myself.  My  hat  was  on  straight,  and  there 
was  nothing  at  all  alarming  about  my  appearance. 

I  went  into  the  President's  private  office. 

He  was  alone.  He  was  conversing  with  Tom  Ochiltree. 
Mr.  Ochiltree  saw  my  little  sphere,  and  with  a  loud  scream 
rushed  out  of  the  room. 

President  Cleveland  slowly  turned  his  eyes  upon  me. 

He  also  saw  what  I  had  in  my  hand,  and  said  in  a  husky 
voice: 


170  Rolling  Stones 

"Wait  a  moment,  please." 

He  searched  his  coat  pocket,  and  presently  found  a 
piece  of  paper  on  which  some  words  were  written. 

He  laid  this  on  his  desk  and  rose  to  his  feet,  raised  one 
hand  above  him,  and  said  in  deep  tones : 

"I  die  for  Free  Trade,  my  country,  and  —  and  —  all 
that  sort  of  thing." 

I  saw  him  jerk  a  string,  and  a  camera  snapped  on  an 
other  table,  taking  our  picture  as  we  stood. 

"Don't  die  in  the  House,  Mr.  President,"  I  said.  "Go 
over  into  the  Senate  Chamber." 

"Peace,  murderer!"  he  said.  "Let  your  bomb  do  its 
deadly  work." 

"I'm  no  bum,"  I  said,  with  spirit.  "I  represent 
The  Rolling  Stone,  of  Austin,  Texas,  and  this  I  hold 
in  my  hand  does  the  same  thing,  but,  it  seems,  un 
successfully." 

The  President  sank  back  in  his  chair  greatly  relieved. 

"I  thought  you  were  a  dynamiter,"  he  said.  "Let  me 
see;  Texas!  Texas!"  He  walked  to  a  large  wall  map 
of  the  United  States,  and  placing  his  finger  thereon  at 
about  the  location  of  Idaho,  ran  it  down  in  a  zigzag,  doubt 
ful  way  until  he  reached  Texas. 

"  Oh,  yes,  here  it  is.  I  have  so  many  things  on  my  mind, 
I  sometimes  forget  what  I  should  know  well. 

"Let's  see;  Texas?  Oh,  yes,  that's  the  State  where 
Ida  Wells  and  a  lot  of  colored  people  lynched  a  socialist 
named  Hogg  for  raising  a  riot  at  a  camp-meeting.  So  you 
are  from  Texas.  I  know  a  man  from  Texas  named  Dave 


A  Snapshot  at  the  President  171 

Culberson.  How  is  Dave  and  his  family?  Has  Dave 
got  any  children?" 

"He  has  a  boy  in  Austin,"  I  said,  "working  around  the 
Capitol." 

"Who  is  President  of  Texas  now?" 

"I  don't  exactly  - 

"Oh,  excuse  me.  I  forgot  again.  I  thought  I  heard 
some  talk  of  its  having  been  made  a  Republic  again." 

"Now,  Mr.  Cleveland,"  I  said,  "you  answer  some  of 
my  questions." 

A  curious  film  came  over  the  President's  eyes.  He  sat 
stiffly  in  his  chair  like  an  automaton. 

"Proceed,"  he  said. 

"What  do  you  think  of  the  political  future  of  this  coun 
try?" 

"I  will  state  that  political  exigencies  demand  emergen- 
tistical  promptitude,  and  while  the  United  States  is  indis 
soluble  in  conception  and  invisible  in  intent,  treason  and 
internecine  disagreement  have  ruptured  the  consanguinity 
of  patriotism,  and " 

"One  moment,  Mr.  President,"  I  interrupted;  "would 
you  mind  changing  that  cylinder?  I  could  have  gotten  all 
that  from  the  American  Press  Association  if  I  had  wanted 
plate  matter.  Do  you  wear  flannels?  What  is  your 
favorite  poet,  brand  of  catsup,  bird,  flower,  and  what  are 
you  going  to  do  when  you  are  out  of  a  job?  " 

"Young  man,"  said  Mr.  Cleveland,  sternly,  "you  are 
going  a  little  too  far.  My  private  affairs  do  not  concern 
the  public." 


17£  Rolling  Stones 

I  begged  his  pardon,  and  he  recovered  his  good  humor 
in  a  moment. 

"You  Texans  have  a  great  representative  in  Senator 
Mills,"  he  said.  "I  think  the  greatest  two  speeches  I 
ever  heard  were  his  address  before  the  Senate  advocat 
ing  the  removal  of  the  tariff  on  salt  and  increasing  it  on 
chloride  of  sodium." 

"Tom  Ochiltree  is  also  from  our  State,"  I  said. 

"Oh,  no,  he  isn't.  You  must  be  mistaken,"  replied 
Mr.  Cleveland,  "for  he  says  he  is.  I  really  must  go  down 
to  Texas  some  time,  and  see  the  State.  I  want  to  go  up 
into  the  Panhandle  and  see  if  it  is  really  shaped  like  it  is 
on  the  map." 

"Well,  I  must  be  going,"  said  I. 

"When  you  get  back  to  Texas,"  said  the  President, 
rising,  "you  must  write  to  me.  Your  visit  has  awakened 
in  me  quite  an  interest  in  your  State  which  I  fear  I  have 
not  given  the  attention  it  deserves.  There  are  many  his 
torical  and  otherwise  interesting  places  that  you  have 
revived  in  my  recollection  —  the  Alamo,  where  Davy  Jones 
fell;  Goliad,  Sam  Houston's  surrender  to  Montezuma,  the 
petrified  boom  found  near  Austin,  five-cent  cotton  and 
the  Siamese  Democratic  platform  born  in  Dallas.  I 
should  so  much  like  to  see  the  gals  in  Galveston,  and  go 
to  the  wake  in  Waco.  I  am  glad  I  met  you.  Turn  to 
the  left  as  you  enter  the  hall  and  keep  straight  on  out."  I 
made  a  low  bow  to  signify  that  the  interview  was  at  an 
end,  and  withdrew  immediately.  I  had  no  difficulty  in 
leaving  the  building  as  soon  as  I  was  outside. 


A  Snapshot  at  the  President  173 

I  hurried  downtown  in  order  to  obtain  refreshments  at 
some  place  where  viands  had  been  placed  upon  the  free 
list. 

I  shall  not  describe  my  journey  back  to  Austin.  I  lost 
my  return  ticket  somewhere  in  the  White  House,  and  was 
forced  to  return  home  in  a  manner  not  especially  beneficial 
to  my  shoes.  Everybody  was  well  in  Washington  when 
)  left,  and  all  send  their  love. 


AN  UNFINISHED  CHRISTMAS  STORY 

[  Probably  begun  several  years  before  his  death.  Published, 
as  it  here  appears,  in  Short  Stories,  January,  1911.] 

NOW,  a  Christmas  story  should  be  one.  For  a  good 
many  years  the  ingenious  writers  have  been  putting  forth 
tales  for  the  holiday  numbers  that  employed  every 
subtle,  evasive,  indirect  and  strategic  scheme  they  could 
invent  to  disguise  the  Christmas  flavor.  So  far  has  this 
new  practice  been  carried  that  nowadays  when  you  read 
a  story  in  a  holiday  magazine  the  only  way  you  can  tell 
it  is  a  Christmas  story  is  to  look  at  the  footnote  which 
reads:  ["The  incidents  in  the  above  story  happened  on 
December  25th.  —  ED."] 

There  is  progress  in  this;  but  it  is  all  very  sad.  There 
are  just  as  many  real  Christmas  stories  as  ever,  if  we  would 
only  dig  'em  up.  Me,  I  am  for  the  Scrooge  and  Marley 
Christmas  story,  and  the  Annie  and  Willie's  prayer  poem, 
and  the  long  lost  son  coming  home  on  the  stroke  of  twelve 
to  the  poorly  thatched  cottage  with  his  arms  full  of  talking 
dolls  and  popcorn  balls  and  —  Zip !  you  hear  the  second 
mortgage  on  the  cottage  go  flying  off  it  into  the  deep  snow. 

So,  this  is  to  warn  you  that  there  is  no  subterfuge  about 
this  story  —  and  you  might  come  upon  stockings  hung 
to  the  mantel  and  plum  puddings  and  hark!  the  chimes! 

174, 


An  Unfinished  Christmas  Story         175 

and  wealthy  misers  loosening  up  and  handing  over  penny 
whistles  to  lame  newsboys  if  you  read  further. 

Once  I  knocked  at  a  door  (I  have  so  many  things  to 
tell  you  I  keep  on  losing  sight  of  the  story) .  It  was  the 
front  door  of  a  furnished  room  house  in  West  'Teenth 
Street.  I  was  looking  for  a  young  illustrator  named  Paley 
originally  and  irrevocably  from  Terre  Haute.  Paley 
doesn't  enter  even  into  the  first  serial  rights  of  this 
Christmas  story;  I  mention  him  simply  in  explaining  why 
I  came  to  knock  at  the  door  —  some  people  have  so  much 
curiosity. 

The  door  was  opened  by  the  landlady.  I  had  seen 
hundreds  like  her.  And  I  had  smelled  before  that  cold, 
dank,  furnished  draught  of  air  that  hurried  by  her  to 
escape  immurement  in  the  furnished  house. 

She  was  stout,  and  her  face  and  hands  were  as  white 
as  though  she  had  been  drowned  in  a  barrel  of  vinegar. 
One  hand  held  together  at  her  throat  a  buttonless  flannel 
dressing  sacque  whose  lines  had  been  cut  by  no  tape  or 
butterick  known  to  mortal  woman.  Beneath  this  a  too- 
long,  flowered,  black  sateen  skirt  was  draped  about  her, 
reaching  the  floor  in  stiff  wrinkles  and  folds. 

The  rest  of  her  was  yellow.  Her  hair,  in  some  bygone 
age,  had  been  dipped  in  the  fountain  of  folly  presided  over 
by  the  merry  nymph  Hydrogen;  but  now,  except  at  the 
roots,  it  had  returned  to  its  natural  grim  and  grizzled 
white. 

Her  eyes  and  teeth  and  finger  nails  were  yellow.  Her 
ckaps  hung  low  and  shook  when  she  moved.  The  look 


176  Rolling  Stones 

on  her  face  was  exactly  that  smileless  look  of  fatal 
melancholy  that  you  may  have  seen  on  the  counte 
nance  of  a  hound  left  sitting  on  the  doorstep  of  a  deserted 
cabin. 

I  inquired  for  Paley.  After  a  long  look  of  cold  sus 
picion  the  landlady  spoke,  and  her  voice  matched  the 
dingy  roughness  of  her  flannel  sacque. 

Paley?  Was  I  sure  that  was  the  name?  And  wasn't 
it,  likely,  Mr.  Sanderson  I  meant,  in  the  third  floor  rear? 
No;  it  was  Paley  I  wanted.  Again  that  frozen,  shrewd, 
steady  study  of  my  soul  from  her  pale-yellow,  unwinking 
eyes,  trying  to  penetrate  my  mask  of  deception  and  rout 
out  my  true  motives  from  my  lying  lips.  There  was  a 
Mr.  Tompkins  in  the  front  hall  bedroom  two  flights  up. 
Perhaps  it  was  he  I  was  seeking.  He  worked  of  nights; 
he  never  came  in  till  seven  in  the  morning.  Or  if  it  was 
really  Mr.  Tucker  (thinly  disguised  as  Paley)  that  I  was 
hunting  I  would  have  to  call  between  five  and 

But  no ;  I  held  firmly  to  Paley.  There  was  no  such  name 
among  her  lodgers.  Click !  the  door  closed  swiftly  in  my 
face;  and  I  heard  through  the  panels  the  clanking  of 
chains  and  bolts. 

I  went  down  the  steps  and  stopped  to  consider.  The 
number  of  this  house  was  43.  I  was  sure  Paley  had  said  43 
—  or  perhaps  it  was  45  or  47  —  I  decided  to  try  47,  the 
second  house  farther  along. 

I  rang  the  bell.  The  door  opened;  and  there  stood  the 
same  woman.  I  wasn't  confronted  by  just  a  resemblance 
• —  it  was  the  same  woman  holding  together  the  same  old 


THE  ROLLING  STONE. 


A    Page  from  the  "Plunkville   Patriot." 


THe 

Fllktle  PiTliBt, 


COL.  ARISTOJ.LE  JORDAN. 
'Editor    4     candidate    for  COUNTY 

IJUDOE.  -  — - 

O&ceuextdoortotho  colored  Baptist 
grateyarp,  over  Smith!*  Tin  shop. 

Subscription  per  <e<u  •    •    •    »1.0o. 


LoCaL  IteMS 


STOP  AT  the 

CRAWLEY  HOUSE! 

PLUNKV1LLF.     -     •  Texas. ; 

MS  U  I.,  11 


I  reSponcible  lor  guests  !.ell  over  Thirty  (30)  dayS. 
Malleable  cteaks. 


Solid 


Eof  hickory  wood,  and  Some  potatoes 
!0rn  Held  peasal    an  early  date, 
•he  iniuferanle  egotism  and  blund- 
totha  bast  interests  of  the  country 
-  -apidly  leading  Mr  Cleveland     MO 


Miss  Maltie  Lungweiler  &  charming 
brunelte  of  Hog  arairie  Is  on  a  visit  t) 

The  Elite  SaLOON-°Pen 
day  &  Night 


nted  Tobe  Rogers  P,M.  of  Pluokv|lle; 
'Evcrjbopv  knows  Tobe  has  three  wives 
Jin  Georgia  and  cant  read  the  addrees 

jliiton  ror°:ald  O^T^be^o'le''^ 
thin  country  to  going  submit  to  such 
'high  handed  Dictators'-.ip? 


Our  symfiatbies 
the  rapaneso  how 
tever.  Their  manufactures  of  Japanese 
'plums  Japaned  tin,  and  Japonic**  sho. 
llhem  to  be  the  -superior  nation,  besid 

jour  coat  buttoned  up  at  the  thro 
'more  than  an  week  on  account  of 
Ing  lost  a  small  piece  of  piece  of  , 


It  supposed  to 
the  factual  we  bad  deposit 
rt  witb  a  celnese  laundr 


Ively  and  idiotically  re 
D  deliver  us  said  garment  with 
» -oglj  phics.    We  bave  written  to 


Second  to  no  Paper  in   the  So 
uth   !!! 

We  have  the  finest  fob  offlc  eln   the 
South  south  of  St.  Eouis  A  are  ready  to 
do  at  short  notice  job  Printing  o(  all 
kinds    A  SLOW  AS  THE  LOWEST. 

ubscrlbe  now  before  the  Rusq. 

——  Speceal  features  tor  1895. 


bed  on  the  23' 


CONTRIBUTED. 


SUNSEt. 


tnwart  tne  goiaen  sun  & 

Steal  colors  wan  &  fair 

While  purple  shadow  sm 

And  lookjusCUke  paint. 


y  dells  hallo 
peep  oul  in  play, 


Tbe  rlverm  ists  aje  cold. 


EKFiE  LUsHINGToN. 

October  the  l.nh   18.01. 

$1OO,000 

REWARD 

For  any  case  of  Jnsomia,  sleeple 
cure.     Price  5  cents.        Addre4i 


rugstore. 


Hut  Providence  ru^sourfatei 


FOR    SALE    CHEAP!- 

:ash  the  rest  in  1,    2,  and  "  •]« 


LDMViLLF,  PATR!-|»S 
OT 

oo    Tbe  oldest  paper  lot  the  state 


ARRIED  MEN-ATTENtlON 

UiillK  ftcoM 

Dr.  KinxsNemComsumplion  compoV. 
The  mother    In  Law 

EradlcatOr 

°Umaiie"'in'3UKinule».     Can   be    Admi- 


The  ralot-rable  .subsidyid,  cowarklv' 
ng  sycophantic  parasite  whodisgra-) 
s  the  editorial  chair  of  the  Plunk-l 


has  spread    the  rep 


at  the  Palace  Drug  SWrc,  but 


"obe  r«! 


^ke-emape  beyond  a  slight  p«in^in 

awkward  thirst  whioh  we  founi  trouble! 
tlsfying.  we  hereby  warn  the' 
(V)  of  the  Herald  that  If  we  see 
r  to  daink  nitric  acid  or  melted 


Hoffer,  a  rising  young  physician^ 
mkville;  basgoneon  a  short  trip 
to  New  Orleans.     Dame    rtmor  bM  U 

requisition  pap»rs  were  made  oul  ye«-j 
lerday. 


inks  the  wound  not  serious. 


f-f  /// 

Visitor — "Dear  me.  General,  who  is  that  dreadfu'  man?1' 
General— "Oh,  that's  only  the  orderly  sergeant." 


UNCLE  SAM— "Well,  I  declare,  those  gentlemen  must  be  brothers 

A  humorous  and  a  political   cartoon   from    The   Rolling 

Stone. 


An  Unfinished  Christmas  Story         177 

sacque  at  her  throat  and  looking  at  me  with  the  same 
yellow  eyes  as  if  she  had  never  seen  me  before  on  earth. 
I  saw  on  the  knuckle  of  her  second  finger  the  same  red-and- 
black  spot  made,  probably,  by  a  recent  burn  against  a  hot 
stove. 

I  stood  speechless  and  gaping  while  one  with  moderate 
haste  might  have  told  fifty.  I  couldn't  have  spoken 
Paley's  name  even  if  I  had  remembered  it.  I  did  the 
only  thing  that  a  brave  man  who  believes  there  are  mys 
terious  forces  in  nature  that  we  do  not  yet  fully  compre 
hend  could  have  done  in  the  circumstances.  I  backed 
down  the  steps  to  the  sidewalk  and  then  hurried  away 
frontward,  fully  understanding  how  incidents  like  that 
must  bother  the  psychical  research  people  and  the  census 
takers. 

Of  course  I  heard  an  explanation  of  it  afterward,  as  we 
always  do  about  inexplicable  things. 

The  landlady  was  Mrs.  Kannon;  and  she  leased  three 
adjoining  houses,  which  she  made  into  one  by  cutting 
arched  doorways  through  the  walls.  She  sat  in  the  middle 
house  and  answered  the  three  bells. 

I  wonder  why  I  have  maundered  so  slowly  through  the 
prologue.  I  have  it!  it  was  simply  to  say  to  you,  in 
the  form  of  introduction  rife  through  the  Middle  West: 
"Shake  hands  with  Mrs.  Kannon." 

For,  it  was  in  her  triple  house  that  the  Christmas  story 
happened;  and  it  was  there  where  I  picked  up  the  incon 
trovertible  facts  from  the  gossip  of  many  roomers  and  met 
Stickney  —  and  saw  the  necktie. 


178  Rolling  Stones 

Christmas  came  that  year  on  Thursday.  And  snow 
came  with  it. 

Stickney  (Harry  Clarence  Fowler  Stickney  to  whomso 
ever  his  full  baptismal  cognominal  burdens  may  be  of 
interest)  reached  his  address  at  six-thirty  Wednesday 
afternoon.  "Address"  is  New  Yorkese  for  "home." 
Stickney  roomed  at  45  West  'Teenth  Street,  third  floor 
rear  hall  room.  He  was  twenty  years  and  four  months 
old,  and  he  worked  in  a  cameras-of -all-kinds,  photographic 
supplies  and  films-developed  store.  I  don't  know  what 
kind  of  work  he  did  in  the  store;  but  you  must  have  seen 
him.  He  is  the  young  man  who  always  comes  behind 
the  counter  to  wait  on  you  and  lets  you  talk  for  five 
minutes,  telling  him  what  you  want.  When  you  are  done, 
he  calls  the  proprietor  at  the  top  of  his  voice  to  wait  on 
you,  and  walks  away  whistling  between  his  teeth. 

I  don't  want  to  bother  about  describing  to  you  his 
appearance;  but,  if  you  are  a  man  reader,  I  will  say  that 
Stickney  looked  precisely  like  the  young  chap  that  you 
always  find  sitting  in  your  chair  smoking  a  cigarette  after 
you  have  missed  a  shot  while  playing  pool  —  not  billiards 
but  pool  —  when  you  want  to  sit  down  yourself. 

There  are  some  to  whom  Christmas  gives  no  Christ 
massy  essence.  Of  course,  prosperous  people  and  com 
fortable  people  who  have  homes  or  flats  or  rooms  with 
meals,  and  even  people  who  live  in  apartment  houses  with 
hotel  service  get  something  of  the  Christmas  flavor.  They 
give  one  another  presents  with  the  cost  mark  scratched  off 
s  with  a  penknife;  and  they  hang  holly  wreaths  in  the  front 


An  Unfinished  Christmas  Story        179 

windows  and  when  they  are  asked  whether  they  prefer 
light  or  dark  meat  from  the  turkey  they  say:  "Both, 
please,"  and  giggle  and  have  lots  of  fun.  And  the  very 
poorest  people  have  the  best  time  of  all.  The  Army  gives 
'em  a  dinner,  and  the  10  A.  M.  issue  of  the  Night  Final 
edition  of  the  newspaper  with  the  largest  circulation  in 
the  city  leaves  a  basket  at  their  door  full  of  an  apple,  a 
Lake  Ronkonkoma  squab,  a  scrambled  eggplant  and  a 
bunch  of  Kalamazoo  bleached  parsley.  The  poorer  you 
are  the  more  Christmas  does  for  you. 

But,  I'll  tell  you  to  what  kind  of  a  mortal  Christmas 
seems  to  be  only  the  day  before  the  twenty-sixth  day  of 
December.  It's  the  chap  in  the  big  city  earning  sixteen 
dollars  a  week,  with  no  friends  and  few  acquaintances, 
who  finds  himself  with  only  fifty  cents  in  his  pocket  on 
Christmas  eve.  He  can't  accept  charity;  he  can't  borrow; 
he  knows  no  one  who  would  invite  him  to  dinner.  I  have 
a  fancy  that  when  the  shepherds  left  their  flocks  to  follow 
the  star  of  Bethlehem  there  was  a  bandy-legged  young 
fellow  among  them  who  was  just  learning  the  sheep  busi 
ness.  So  they  said  to  him,  "Bobby,  we're  going  to  inves 
tigate  this  star  route  and  see  what's  in  it.  If  it  should 
turn  out  to  be  the  first  Christmas  day  we  don't  want  to 
miss  it.  And,  as  you  are  not  a  wise  man,  and  as  you 
couldn't  possibly  purchase  a  present  to  take  along, 
suppose  you  stay  behind  and  mind  the  sheep."  So  as 
we  may  say,  Harry  Stickney  was  a  direct  descendant 
of  the  shepherd  who  was  left  behind  to  take  care  of  the 
flocks. 


180  Rolling  Stones 

Getting  back  to  facts,  Stickney  rang  the  doorbell  of 
45.  He  had  a  habit  of  forgetting  his  latchkey. 

Instantly  the  door  opened  and  there  stood  Mrs.  Kannon, 
clutching  her  sacque  together  at  the  throat  and  gorgon-  .! 
izing  him  with  her  opaque,  yellow  eyes. 

(To  give  you  good  measure,  here  is  a  story  within  a 
story.  Once  a  roomer  in  47  who  had  the  Scotch  habit 
not  kilts,  but  a  habit  of  drinking  Scotch  —  began  to  figure 
to  himself  what  might  happen  if  two  persons  should  ring 
the  doorbells  of  43  and  47  at  the  same  time.  Visions  of 
two  halves  of  Mrs.  Kannon  appearing  respectively  and 
simultaneously  at  the  two  entrances,  each  clutching  at  a 
side  of  an  open,  flapping  sacque  that  could  never  meet, 
overpowered  him.  Bellevue  got  him.) 

"Evening,"  said  Stickney  cheerlessly,  as  he  distributed 
little  piles  of  muddy  slush  along  the  hall  matting.  "  Think 
we'll  have  snow?" 

"You  left  your  key,"  said 

(Here  the  manuscript  ends.) 


THE  UNPROFITABLE  SERVANT 

[Left  unfinished,  and  published  as  it  here  appears  in  Everybody's 
Magazine,  December,  1911.] 

I  AM  the  richer  by  the  acquaintance  of  four  newspaper 
men.  Singly,  they  are  my  encyclopedias,  friends,  mentors, 
and  sometimes  bankers.  But  now  and  then  it  happens 
that  all  of  them  will  pitch  upon  the  same  printworthy 
incident  of  the  passing  earthly  panorama  and  will  send 
in  reportorial  constructions  thereof  to  their  respective 
journals.  It  is  then  that,  for  me,  it  is  to  laugh.  For  it 
seems  that  to  each  of  them,  trained  and  skilled  as  he  may 
be,  the  same  occurrence  presents  a  different  facet  of  the 
cut  diamond,  life. 

One  will  have  it  (let  us  say)  that  Mme.  Andre  Macarte's 
apartment  was  looted  by  six  burglars,  who  descended  via 
the  fire-escape  and  bore  away  a  ruby  tiara  valued  at  two 
thousand  dollars  and  a  five-hundred-dollar  prize  Spitz 
dog,  which  (in  violation  of  the  expectoration  ordinance) 
was  making  free  with  the  halls  of  the  Wuttapesituckque- 
sunoowetunquah  Apartments. 

My  second  "duel"  will  take  notes  to  the  effect  that 
while  a  friendly  game  of  pinochle  was  in  progress  in  the 
tenement  rooms  of  Mrs.  Andy  McCarty,  a  lady  guest 
named  Ruby  O'Hara  threw  a  burglar  down  six  flights  of 

181 


182  Rolling  Stones 

stairs,  where  he  was  pinioned  and  held  by  a  two-thousand- 
dollar  English  bulldog  amid  a  crowd  of  five  hundred  excited 
spectators. 

My  third  chronicler  and  friend  will  gather  the  news 
threads  of  the  happening  in  his  own  happy  way;  setting 
forth  on  the  page  for  you  to  read  that  the  house  of  Antonio 
Macartini  was  blown  up  at  6  A.  M.,  by  the  Black  Hand 
Society,  on  his  refusing  to  leave  two  thousand  dollars  at 
a  certain  street  corner,  killing  a  pet  five-hundred-dollar 
Pomeranian  belonging  to  Alderman  Rubitara's  little 
daughter  (see  photo  and  diagram  opposite) . 

Number  four  of  my  history-makers  will  simply  construe 
from  the  premises  the  story  that  while  an  audience  of  two 
thousand  enthusiasts  was  listening  to  a  Rubinstein  concert 
on  Sixth  Street,  a  woman  who  said  she  was  Mrs.  Andrew 
M.  Carter  threw  a  brick  through  a  plate-glass  window 
valued  at  five  hundred  dollars.  The  Carter  woman  claimed 
that  some  one  in  the  building  had  stolen  her  dog. 

Now,  the  discrepancies  in  these  registrations  of  the  day's 
doings  need  do  no  one  hurt.  Surely /one  newspaper  is 
enough  for  any  man  to  prop  against  his  morning  water- 
bottle  to  fend  off  the  smiling  hatred  of  his  wife's  glance. 
If  he  be  foolish  enough  to  read  four  he  is  no  wiser  than  a 
Higher  Critic. 

I  remember  (probably  as  well  as  you  do)  having  read 
the  parable  of  the  talents.  A  prominent  citizen,  about 
to  journey  into  a  far  country,  first  hands  over  to  his 
servants  his  goods.  To  one  he  gives  five  talents;  to  an 
other  two;  to  another  one  —  to  every  man  according  to 


The  Unprofitable  Servant  183 

his  several  ability,  as  the  text  has  it.  There  are  two 
versions  of  this  parable,  as  you  well  know.  There  may  be 
more  —  I  do  not  know. 

When  the  p.  c.  returns  he  requires  an  accounting.  Two 
servants  have  put  their  talents  out  at  usury  and  gained 
one  hundred  per  cent.  Good.  The  unprofitable  one 
simply  digs  up  the  talent  deposited  with  him  and  hands  it 
out  on  demand.  A  pattern  of  behavior  for  trust  companies 
and  banks,  surely!  In  one  version  we  read  that  he  had 
wrapped  it  in  a  napkin  and  laid  it  away.  But  the  com 
mentator  informs  us  that  the  talent  mentioned  was  com 
posed  of  750  ounces  of  silver  —  about  $900  worth.  So 
the  chronicler  who  mentioned  the  napkin,  had  either  to 
reduce  the  amount  of  the  deposit  or  do  a  lot  of  explaining 
about  the  size  of  the  napery  used  in  those  days.  There 
fore  in  his  version  we  note  that  he  uses  the  word  "pound" 
instead  of  "talent." 

A  pound  of  silver  may  very  well  be  laid  away  —  and 
carried  away  —  in  a  napkin,  as  any  hotel  or  restaurant 
man  will  tell  you. 

But  let  us  get  away  from  our  mutton. 

When  the  returned  nobleman  finds  that  the  one-talented 
servant  has  nothing  to  hand  over  except  the  original  fund 
entrusted  to  him,  he  is  as  angry  as  a  multi-millionaire 
would  be  if  some  one  should  hide  under  his  bed  and  make 
a  noise  like  an  assessment.  He  orders  the  unprofitable 
servant  cast  into  outer  darkness,  after  first  taking  away 
his  talent  and  giving  it  to  the  one-hundred-per  cent, 
financier,  and  breathing  strange  saws,  saying:  "From  him 


184  Rolling  Stones 

that  hath  not  shall  be  taken  away  even  that  which  he 
hath."  Which  is  the  same  as  to  say:  "Nothing  from 
nothing  leaves  nothing." 

And  now  closer  draw  the  threads  of  parable,  precept 
allegory,  and  narrative,  leading  nowhere  if  you  will,  or 
else  weaving  themselves  into  the  little  fiction  story  about 
Cliff  McGowan  and  his  one  talent.  There  is  but  a  defini 
tion  to  follow;  and  then  the  homely  actors  trip  on. 

Talent:  A  gift,  endowment  or  faculty;  some  peculiar 
ability,  power,  or  accomplishment,  natural  or  acquired. 
(A  metaphor  borrowed  from  the  parable  in  Matt.  XXV. 
14-30.) 

In  New  York  City  to-day  there  are  (estimated)  125,000 
living  creatures  training  for  the  stage.  This  does  not 
include  seals,  pigs,  dogs,  elephants,  prize-fighters,  Carmens, 
mind-readers,  or  Japanese  wrestlers.  The  bulk  of  them 
are  in  the  ranks  of  the  Four  Million.  Out  of  this  number 
will  survive  a  thousand. 

Nine  hundred  of  these  will  have  attained  their  fulness 
of  fame  when  they  shall  dubiously  indicate  with  the  point 
of  a  hatpin  a  blurred  figure  in  a  flashlight  photograph 
of  a  stage  tout  ensemble  with  the  proud  commentary: 
"That's  me." 

Eighty,  in  the  pinkest  of  (male)  Louis  XIV  court 
costumes,  shall  welcome  the  Queen  of  the  (mythical) 
Pawpaw  Isles  in  a  few  well-memorized  words,  turning  a 
tip-tilted  nose  upon  the  nine  hundred. 

Ten,  in  tiny  lace  caps,  shall  dust  Ibsen  furniture  for  six 
minutes  after  the  rising  of  the  curtain. 


The  Unprofitable  Servant  185 

Nine  shall  attain  the  circuits,  besieging  with  muscle, 
skill,  eye,  hand,  voice,  wit,  brain,  heel  and  toe  the  ultimate 
high  walls  of  stardom. 

One  shall  inherit  Broadway.    Sic  venit  gloria  mundi. 

Cliff  McGowan  and  Mac  McGowan  were  cousins. 
They  lived  on  the  West  Side  and  were  talented.  Singing, 
dancing,  imitations,  trick  bicycle  riding,  boxing,  German 
and  Irish  dialect  comedy,  and  a  little  sleight-of-hand  and 
balancing  of  wheat  straws  and  wheelbarrows  on  the  ends 
of  their  chins  came  as  easy  to  them  as  it  is  for  you  to  fix 
your  rat  so  it  won't  show  or  to  dodge  a  creditor  through 
the  swinging-doors  of  a  well-lighted  cafe  —  according  as 
you  may  belong  to  the  one  or  the  other  division  of  the 
greatest  prestidigitators  —  the  people.  They  were  slim, 
pale,  consummately  self-possessed  youths,  whose  finger 
nails  were  always  irreproachably  (and  clothes  seams  re 
proachfully)  shiny.  Their  conversation  was  in  sentences 
so  short  that  they  made  Kipling's  seem  as  long  as  court 
citations. 

Having  the  temperament,  they  did  no  work.  Any  after 
noon  you  could  find  them  on  Eighth  Avenue  either  in 
front  of  Spinelli's  barber  shop,  Mike  Dugan's  place,  or 
the  Limerick  Hotel,  rubbing  their  forefinger  nails  with 
dingy  silk  handkerchiefs.  At  any  time,  if  you  had  hap 
pened  to  be  standing,  undecisive,  near  a  pool-table,  and 
Cliff  and  Mack  had,  casually,  as  it  were,  drawn  near, 
mentioning  something,  disinterestedly,  about  a  game, 
well,  indeed,  would  it  have  been  for  you  had  you  gone 
your  way,  unresponsive.  Which  assertion,  carefully 


186  Rolling  Stones 

considered,  is  a  study  in  tense,  punctuation,  and  advice 
to  strangers. 

Of  all  kinships  it  is  likely  that  the  closest  is  that  of 
cousin.  Between  cousins  there  exist  the  ties  of  race, 
name,  and  favor  —  ties  thicker  than  water,  and  yet  not 
coagulated  with  the  jealous  precipitations  of  brotherhood 
or  the  enjoining  obligations  of  the  matrimonial  yoke.  You 
can  bestow  upon  a  cousin  almost  the  interest  and  affection 
that  you  would  give  to  a  stranger;  you  need  not  feel 
toward  him  the  contempt  and  embarrassment  that  you 
have  for  one  of  youT  father's  sons  —  it  is  the  closer  clan- 
feeling  that  sometimes  makes  the  branch  of  a  tree  stronger 
than  its  trunk. 

Thus  were  the  two  McGowans  bonded.  They  enjoyed 
a  quiet  celebrity  in  their  district,  which  was  a  strip  west 
of  Eighth  Avenue  with  the  Pump  for  its  pivot.  Their 
talents  were  praised  in  a  hundreS  "joints";  their  friend 
ship  was  famed  even  in  a  neighborhood  where  men  had 
been  known  to  fight  off  the  wives  of  their  friends  —  when 
domestic  onslaught  was  being  made  upon  their  friends 
by  the  wives  of  their  friends.  (Thus  do  the  limitations  of 
English  force  us  to  repetends.) 

So,  side  by  side,  grim,  sallow,  lowering,  inseparable, 
undefeated,  the  cousins  fought  their  way  into  the  temple 
of  Art  —  art  with  a  big  A,  which  causes  to  intervene  a 
lesson  in  geometry. 

One  night  at  about  eleven  o'clock  Del  Delano  dropped 
into  Mike's  place  on  Eighth  Avenue.  From  that  moment, 
instead  of  remaining  a  Place,  the  cafe  became  a  Resort. 


The  Unprofitable  Servant  187 

It  was  as  though  King  Edward  had  condescended  to  mingle 
with  ten-spots  of  a  different  suit;  or  Joe  Gans  had  casually 
strolled  in  to  look  over  the  Tuskegee  School;  or  Mr. 
Shaw,  of  England,  had  accepted  an  invitation  to  read 
selections  from  "Rena,  the  Snow-bird"  at  an  unveiling 
of  the  proposed  monument  to  James  Owen  O'Connor  at 
Chinquapin  Falls,  Mississippi.  In  spite  of  these  compari 
sons,  you  will  have  to  be  told  why  the  patronizing  of  a 
third-rate  saloon  on  the  West  Side  by  the  said  Del  Delano 
conferred  such  a  specific  honor  upon  the  place. 

Del  Delano  could  not  make  his  feet  behave;  and  so  the 
world  paid  him  $300  a  week  to  see  them  misconduct 
themselves  on  the  vaudeville  stage.  To  make  the  matter 
plain  to  you  (and  to  swell  the  number  of  words),  he  was 
the  best  fancy  dancer  on  any  of  the  circuits  between 
Ottawa  and  Corpus  Christi.  With  his  eyes  fixed  on  va 
cancy  and  his  feet  apparently  fixed  on  nothing,  he  "nightly 
charmed  thousands,"  as  his  press-agent  incorrectly  stated. 
Even  taking  night  performance  and  matinee  together, 
he  scarcely  could  have  charmed  more  than  eighteen 
hundred,  including  those  who  left  after  Zora,  the  Nautch 
girl,  had  squeezed  herself  through  a  hoop  twelve  inches  in 
diameter,  and  those  who  were  waiting  for  the  moving 
pictures. 

But  Del  Delano  was  the  West  Side's  favorite;  and  no 
where  is  there  a  more  loyal  Side.  Five  years  before  our 
story  was  submitted  to  the  editors,  Del  had  crawled  from 
some  Tenth  Avenue  basement  like  a  lean  rat  and  had 
bitten  his  way  into  the  Big  Cheese.  Patched,  half -starved, 


188  Rolling  Stones 

cuffless,  and  as  scornful  of  the  Hook  as  an  interpreter  of 
Ibsen,  he  had  danced  his  way  into  health  (as  you  and  I 
view  it)  and  fame  in  sixteen  minutes  on  Amateur  Night  at 
Creary's  (Variety)  Theatre  in  Eighth  Avenue.  A  book 
maker  (one  of  the  kind  that  talent  wins  with  instead  of 
losing)  sat  in  the  audience,  asleep,  dreaming  of  an  impos 
sible  pick-up  among  the  amateurs.  After  a  snore,  a  glass 
of  beer  from  the  handsome  waiter,  and  a  temporary 
blindness  caused  by  the  diamonds  of  a  transmontane 
blonde  in  Box  E,  the  bookmaker  woke  up  long  enough 
to  engage  Del  Delano  for  a  three-weeks'  trial  engagement 
fused  with  a  trained-dog  short-circuit  covering  the  three 
Washingtons  —  Heights,  Statue,  and  Square. 

By  the  time  this  story  was  read  and  accepted,  Del 
Delano  was  drawing  his  three-hundred  dollars  a  week, 
which,  divided  by  seven  (Sunday  acts  not  in  costume  being 
permissible),  dispels  the  delusion  entertained  by  most 
of  us  that  we  have  seen  better  days.  You  can  easily 
imagine  the  worshipful  agitation  of  Eighth  Avenue  when 
ever  Del  Delano  honored  it  with  a  visit  after  his  terpsi- 
chorean  act  in  a  historically  great  and  vilely  ventilated 
Broadway  theatre.  If  the  West  Side  could  claim  forty- 
two  minutes  out  of  his  forty-two  weeks'  bookings  every 
year,  it  was  on  occasion  for  bonfires  and  repainting  of 
the  Pump.  And  now  you  know  why  Mike's  saloon  is  a 
Resort,  and  no  longer  a  simple  Place. 

Del  Delano  entered  Mike's  alone.  So  nearly  concealed 
in  a  fur-lined  overcoat  and  a  derby  two  sizes  too  large  for 
him  was  Prince  Lightfoot  that  you  saw  of  his  face  only 


The  Unprofitable  Servant  189 

his  pale,  hatchet-edged  features  and  a  pair  of  unwinking, 
cold,  light  blue  eyes.  Nearly  every  man  lounging  at 
Mike's  bar  recognized  the  renowned  product  of  the  West 
Side.  To  those  who  did  not,  wisdom  was  conveyed  by 
prodding  elbows  and  growls  of  one-sided  introduction. 

Upon  Charley,  one  of  the  bartenders,  both  fame  and 
fortune  descended  simultaneously.  He  had  once  been 
honored  by  shaking  hands  with  the  great  Delano  at  a 
Seventh  Avenue  boxing  bout.  So  with  lungs  of  brass  he 
now  cried:  "Hallo,  Del,  old  man;  what  '11  it  be?" 

Mike,  the  proprietor,  who  was  cranking  the  cash  reg 
ister,  heard.  On  the  next  day  he  raised  Charley's  wages 
five  a  week. 

Del  Delano  drank  a  pony  beer,  paying  for  it  carelessly 
out  of  his  nightly  earnings  of  $42.85f .  He  nodded 
amiably  but  coldly  at  the  long  line  of  Mike's  patrons  and 
strolled  past  them  into  the  rear  room  of  the  cafe.  For 
he  heard  in  there  sounds  pertaining  to  his  own  art  —  the 
light,  stirring  staccato  of  a  buck-and-wing  dance. 

In  the  back  room  Mac  McGowan  was  giving  a  private 
exhibition  of  the  genius  of  his  feet.  A  few  young  men  sat 
at  tables  looking  on  critically  while  they  amused  them 
selves  seriously  with  beer.  They  nodded  approval  at 
some  new  fancy  steps  of  Mac's  own  invention. 

At  the  sight  of  the  great  Del  Delano,  the  amateur's 
feet  stuttered,  blundered,  clicked  a  few  times,  and  ceased 
to  move.  The  tongues  of  one's  shoes  become  tied  in  the 
presence  of  the  Master.  Mac's  sallowface  took  on  a 
slight  flush. 


190  Rolling  Stones 

From  the  uncertain  cavity  between  Del  Delano's  hat 
brim  and  the  lapels  of  his  high  fur  coat  collar  came  a  thin 
puff  of  cigarette  smoke  and  then  a  voice : 

"Do  that  last  step  over  again,  kid.  And  don't  hold 
your  arms  quite  so  stiff.  Now,  then!" 

Once  more  Mac  went  through  his  paces.  According 
to  the  traditions  of  the  man  dancer,  his  entire  being  was 
transformed  into  mere  feet  and  legs.  His  gaze  and  expres 
sion  became  cataleptic;  his  body,  unbending  above  the 
waist,  but  as  light  as  a  cork,  bobbed  like  the  same  cork 
dancing  on  the  ripples  of  a  running  brook.  The  beat  of 
his  heels  and  toes  pleased  you  like  a  snare-drum  obligate. 
The  performance  ended  with  an  amazing  clatter  of  leather 
against  wood  that  culminated  in  a  sudden  flat-footed  stamp, 
leaving  the  dancer  erect  and  as  motionless  as  a  pillar  of 
the  colonial  portico  of  a  mansion  in  a  Kentucky  prohibition 
town.  Mac  felt  that  he  had  done  his  best  and  that  Del 
Delano  would  turn  his  back  upon  him  in  derisive  scorn.  " 

An  approximate  silence  followed,  broken  only  by  the 
mewing  of  a  cafe  cat  and  the  hubbub  and  uproar  of  a  few 
million  citizens  and  transportation  facilities  outside. 

Mac  turned  a  hopeless  but  nervy  eye  upon  Del  Delano's 
face.  In  it  he  read  disgust,  admiration,  envy,  indifference, 
approval,  disappointment,  praise,  and  contempt. 

Thus,  in  the  countenances  of  those  we  hate  or  love  we 
find  what  we  most  desire  or  fear  to  see.  Which  is  an 
assertion  equalling  in  its  wisdom  and  chiaroscuro  the  most 
famous  sayings  of  the  most  foolish  philosophers  that  the 
world  has  ever  known. 


The  Unprofitable  Servant  191 

Del  Delano  retired  within  his  overcoat  and  hat.  In  two 
minutes  he  emerged  and  turned  his  left  side  to  Mac.  Then 
he  spoke. 

"  You've  got  a  foot  movement,  kid,  like  a  baby  hippo 
potamus  trying  to  side-step  a  jab  from  a  humming-bird. 
And  you  hold  yourself  like  a  truck  driver  having  his  picture 
taken  in  a  Third  Avenue  photograph  gallery.  And  you 
haven't  got  any  method  or  style.  And  your  knees  are 
about  as  limber  as  a  couple  of  Yale  pass-keys.  And  you 
strike  the  eye  as  weighing,  let  us  say,  450  pounds  while 
you  work.  But,  say,  would  you  mind  giving  me  your 
name?" 

"McGowan,"  said  the  humbled  amateur — "Mac  Mc- 
Gowan." 

Delano  the  Great  slowly  lighted  a  cigarette  and  con 
tinued,  through  its  smoke: 

"In  other  words,  you're  rotten.  You  can't  dance.  But 
I'll  tell  you  one  thing  you've  got." 

"Throw  it  all  off  of  your  system  while  you're  at  it," 
said  Mac.  "  What've  I  got?  " 

"Genius,"  said  Del  Delano.  "Except  myself,  it's  up 
to  you  to  be  the  best  fancy  dancer  in  the  United  States, 
Europe,  Asia,  and  the  colonial  possessions  of  all  three." 

"Smoke  up!"  said  Mac  McGowan. 

"Genius,"  repeated  the  Master  —  "you've  got  a  talent 
for  genius.  Your  brains  are  in  your  feet,  where  a  dancer's 
ought  to  be.  You've  been  self-taught  until  you're  almost 
ruined,  but  not  quite.  What  you  need  is  a  trainer.  I'll 
take  you  in  hand  and  put  you  at  the  top  of  the  profession. 


192  Rolling  Stones 

There's  room  there  for  the  two  of  us.  You  may  beat  me," 
said  the  Master,  casting  upon  him  a  cold,  savage  look 
combining  so  much  rivalry,  affection,  justice,  and  human 
hate  that  it  stamped  him  at  once  as  one  of  the  little  great 
ones  of  the  earth  — "y°u  may  beat  me;  but  I  doubt  it. 
I've  got  the  start  and  the  pull.  But  at  the  top  is  where  you 
belong.  Your  name,  you  say,  is  Robinson?" 

"McGowan,"  repeated  the  amateur,  "Mac  McGowan." 

"It  don't  matter,"  said  Delano.  "Suppose  you  walk 
up  to  my  hotel  with  me.  I'd  like  to  talk  to  you.  Your 
footwork  is  the  worst  I  ever  saw,  Madigan  —  but  —  well, 
I'd  like  to  talk  to  you.  You  may  not  think  so,  but  I'm 
not  so  stuck  up.  I  came  off  of  the  West  Side  myself. 
That  overcoat  cost  me  eight  hundred  dollars;  but  the 
collar  ain't  so  high  but  what  I  can  see  over  it.  I  taught 
myself  to  dance,  and  I  put  in  most  of  nine  years  at  it  before 
I  shook  a  foot  in  public.  But  I  had  genius.  I  didn't  go 
too  far  wrong  in  teaching  myself  as  you've  done.  You've 
got  the  rottenest  method  and  style  of  anybody  I  ever  saw." 

"Oh,  I  don't  think  much  of  the  few  little  steps  I  take," 
said  Mac,  with  hypocritical  lightness. 

"Don't  talk  like  a  package  of  self-raising  buckwheat 
flour,"  said  Del  Delano.  "You've  had  a  talent  handed 
to  you  by  the  Proposition  Higher  Up;  and  it's  up  to  you 
to  do  the  proper  thing  with  it.  I'd  like  to  have  you  go  up 
to  my  hotel  for  a  talk,  if  you  will. 

In  his  rooms  in  the  King  Clovis  Hotel,  Del  Delano  put 
on  a  scarlet  house  coat  bordered  with  gold  braid  and  set 
out  Apollinaris  and  a  box  of  sweet  crackers. 


The  Unprofitable  Servant  193 

Mac's  eye  wandered. 

"Forget  it,"  said  Del.  "Drink  and  tobacco  may  be  all 
right  for  a  man  who  makes  his  living  with  his  hands;  but 
they  won't  do  if  you're  depending  on  your  head  or  your 
feet.  If  one  end  of  you  gets  tangled,  so  does  the  other. 
That's  why  beer  and  cigarettes  don't  hurt  piano  players 
and  picture  painters.  But  you've  got  to  cut  'em  out  if 
you  want  to  do  mental  or  pedal  work.  Now,  have  a 
cracker,  and  then  we'll  talk  some." 

"  All  right,"  said  Mac.  "  I  take  it  as  an  honor,  of  course, 
for  you  to  notice  my  hopping  around.  Of  course  I'd  like 
to  do  something  in  a  professional  line.  Of  course  I  can  sing 
a  little  and  do  card  tricks  and  Irish  and  German  comedy 
stuff,  and  of  course  I'm  not  so  bad  on  the  trapeze  and 
comic  bicycle  stunts  and  Hebrew  monologues  and " 

"One  moment,"  interrupted  Del  Delano,  "before  we 
begin.  I  said  you  couldn't  dance.  Well,  that  wasn't 
quite  right.  You've  only  got  two  or  three  bad  tricks  in 
your  method.  You're  handy  with  your  feet,  and  you 
belong  at  the  top,  where  I  am.  I'll  put  you  there.  I've 
got  six  weeks  continuous  in  New  York;  and  in  four  I 
can  shape  up  your  style  till  the  booking  agents  will  fight 
one  another  to  get  you.  And  I'll  do  it,  too.  I'm  of,  from, 
and  for  the  West  Side.  'Del  Delano'  looks  good  on  bill 
boards,  but  the  family  name's  Crowley.  Now,  Mackin 
tosh  —  McGowan,  I  mean  —  you've  got  your  chance  — 
fifty  times  a  better  one  than  I  had." 

"I'd  be  a  shine  to  turn  it  down,"  said  Mac.  "And  I 
hope  you  understand  I  appreciate  it.  Me  and  my  cousin 


194  Rolling  Stones 

Cliff  McGowan  was  thinking  of  getting  a  try-out  at 
Creary's  on  amateur  night  a  month  from  to-morrow." 

"Good  stuff!"  said  Delano.  " I  got  mine  there.  Junius 
T.  Rollins,  the  hooker  for  Kuhn  &  Dooley,  jumped  on  the 
stage  and  engaged  me  after  my  dance.  And  the  boards 
were  an  inch  deep  in  nickels  and  dimes  and  quarters. 
There  wasn't  but  nine  penny  pieces  found  in  the  lot." 

"I  ought  to  tell  you,"  said  Mac,  after  two  minutes  of 
pensiveness,  "that  my  cousin  Cliff  can  beat  me  dancing. 
We've  always  been  what  you  might  call  pals.  If  you'd 
take  him  up  instead  of  me,  now,  it  might  be  better.  He's 
invented  a  lot  of  steps  that  I  can't  cut." 

"Forget  it,"  said  Delano.  "Mondays,  Wednesdays, 
Fridays,  and  Saturdays  of  every  week  from  now  till  ama 
teur  night,  a  month  off,  I'll  coach  you.  I'll  make  you  as 
good  as  I  am;  and  nobody  could  do  more  for  you.  My 
act's  over  every  night  at  10:15.  Half  an  hour  later  I'll 
take  you  up  and  drill  you  till  twelve.  I'll  put  you  at  the 
top  of  the  bunch,  right  where  I  am.  You've  got  talent. 
Your  style's  bum;  but  you've  got  the  genius.  You  let 
me  manage  it.  I'm  from  the  West  Side  myself,  and  I'd 
rather  see  one  of  the  same  gang  win  out  before  I 
would  an  East-Sider,  or  any  of  the  Flatbush  or  Hacken- 
sack  Meadow  kind  of  butt-iners.  I'll  see  that  Junius 
Rollins  is  present  on  your  Friday  night;  and  if  he  don't 
climb  over  the  footlights  and  offer  you  fifty  a  week  as  a 
starter,  I'll  let  you  draw  it  down  from  my  own  salary 
every  Monday  night.  Now,  am  I  talking  on  the  level 
or  am  I  not?" 


The  Unprofitable  Servant  195 

Amateur  night  at  Creary's  Eighth  Avenue  Theatre  is 
cut  by  the  same  pattern  as  amateur  nights  elsewhere. 
After  the  regular  performance  the  humblest  talent  may, 
by  previous  arrangement  with  the  management,  make 
its  debut  upon  the  public  stage.  Ambitious  non-profes 
sionals,  mostly  self-instructed,  display  their  skill  and 
powers  of  entertainment  along  the  broadest  lines.  They 
may  sing,  dance,  mimic,  juggle,  contort,  recite,  or  disport 
themselves  along  any  of  the  ragged  boundary  lines  of  Art. 
From  the  ranks  of  these  anxious  tyros  are  chosen  the  pro 
fessionals  that  adorn  or  otherwise  make  conspicuous  the 
full-blown  stage.  Press-agents  delight  in  recounting  to 
open-mouthed  and  closed-eared  reporters  stories  of  the 
humble  beginnings  of  the  brilliant  stars  whose  orbits  they 
control. 

Such  and  such  a  prima  donna  (they  will  tell  you)  made 
her  initial  bow  to  the  public  while  turning  handsprings  on 
an  amateur  night.  One  great  matinee  favorite  made  his 
debut  on  a  generous  Friday  evening  singing  coon  songs  of 
his  own  composition.  A  tragedian  famous  on  two  con 
tinents  and  an  island  first  attracted  attention  by  an 
amateur  impersonation  of  a  newly  landed  Scandinavian 
peasant  girl.  One  Broadway  comedian  that  turns  'em 
away  got  a  booking  on  a  Friday  night  by  reciting  (seri 
ously)  the  graveyard  scene  in  "Hamlet." 

Thus  they  get  their  chance.  Amateur  night  is  a  kindly 
boon.  It  is  charity  divested  of  almsgiving.  It  is  a 
brotherly  hand  reached  down  by  members  of  the  best 
united  band  of  coworkers  in  the  world  to  raise  up  less 


196  Rolling  Stones 

fortunate  ones  without  labelling  them  beggars.  It  gives 
you  the  chance,  if  you  can  grasp  it,  to  step  for  a  few  minutes 
before  some  badly  painted  scenery  and,  during  the  playing 
by  the  orchestra  of  some  ten  or  twelve  bars  of  music,  and 
while  the  soles  of  your  shoes  may  be  clearly  holding  to  the 
uppers,  to  secure  a  salary  equal  to  a  Congressman's  or 
any  orthodox  minister's.  Could  an  ambitious  student  of 
literature  or  financial  methods  get  a  chance  like  that  by 
spending  twenty  minutes  in  a  Carnegie  library?  I  do 
not  trow  so. 

But  shall  we  look  in  at  Creary's?  Let  us  say  that  the 
specific  Friday  night  had  arrived  on  which  the  fortunate 
Mac  McGowan  was  to  justify  the  flattering  predictions 
of  his  distinguished  patron  and,  incidentally,  drop  his 
silver  talent  into  the  slit  of  the  slot-machine  of  fame  and 
fortune  that  gives  up  reputation  and  dough.  I  offer,  sure 
of  your  acquiescence,  that  we  now  forswear  hypocritical 
philosophy  and  bigoted  comment,  permitting  the  story 
to  finish  itself  in  the  dress  of  material  allegations  —  a 
medium  more  worthy,  when  held  to  the  line,  than  the 
most  laborious  creations  of  the  word -milliners.  .  .  . 

(Page  of  manuscript  missing  here.) 

easily  among  the  wings  with  his  patron,  the  great  Del 
Delano.  For,  wherever  footlights  shone  in  the  City-That 
Would-Be-Amused,  the  freedom  of  their  unshaded  side 
was  Del's.  And  if  he  should  take  up  an  amateur  —  see? 
and  bring  him  around  —  see?  and,  winking  one  of  his 
cold  blue  eyes,  say  to  the  manager:  "Take  it  from  me  — 
he's  got  the  goods  —  see?  "  you  wouldn't  expect  that  ama- 


The  Unprofitable  Servant  197 

teur  to  sit  on  an  unpainted  bench  sudorifically  awaiting 
his  turn,  would  you?  So  Mac  strolled  around  largely  with 
the  nonpareil;  and  the  seven  waited,  clammily,  on  the 
bench. 

A  giant  in  shirt-sleeves,  with  a  grim,  kind  face  in  which 
many  stitches  had  been  taken  by  surgeons  from  time  to 
time,  i.  e.t  with  a  long  stick,  looped  at  the  end.  He  was 
the  man  with  the  Hook.  The  manager,  with  his  close- 
smoothed  blond  hair,  his  one-sided  smile,  and  his  abnor 
mally  easy  manner,  pored  with  patient  condescension  over 
the  difficult  program  of  the  amateurs.  The  last  of  the 
professional  turns  —  the  Grand  March  of  the  Happy 
Huzzard  —  had  been  completed;  the  last  wrinkle  and  darn 
of  their  blue  silkolene  cotton  tights  had  vanished  from  the 
stage.  The  man  in  the  orchestra  who  played  the  kettle 
drum,  cymbals,  triangle,  sandpaper,  whangdoodle,  hoof- 
beats,  and  catcalls,  and  fired  the  pistol  shots,  had  wiped 
his  brow.  The  illegal  holiday  of  the  Romans  had  arrived. 

While  the  orchestra  plays  the  famous  waltz  from  "The 
Dismal  Wife,"  let  us  bestow  two  hundred  words  upon  the 
psychology  of  the  audience. 

The  orchestra  floor  was  filled  by  People.  The  boxes 
contained  Persons.  In  the  galleries  was  the  Foreordained 
Verdict.  The  claque  was  there  as  it  had  originated  in  the 
Stone  Age  and  was  afterward  adapted  by  the  French. 
Every  Micky  and  Maggie  who  sat  upon  Creary's  amateur 
bench,  wise  beyond  their  talents,  knew  that  their  success 
or  doom  lay  already  meted  out  to  them  by  that  crowded, 
whistling,  roaring  mass  of  Romans  in  the  three  galleries. 


198  Rolling  Stones 

They  knew  that  the  winning  or  the  losing  of  the  game  for 
each  one  lay  in  the  strength  of  the  "gang"  aloft  that  could 
turn  the  applause  to  its  favorite.  On  a  Broadway  first 
night  a  wooer  of  fame  may  win  it  from  the  ticket  buyers 
over  the  heads  of  the  cognoscenti.  But  not  so  at  Creary's. 
The  amateur's  fate  is  arithmetical.  The  number  of  his 
supporting  admirers  present  at  his  try-out  decides  it  in 
advance.  But  how  these  outlying  Friday  nights  put  to 
a  certain  shame  the  Mondays,  Tuesdays,  Wednesdays, 
Thursdays,  Saturdays,  and  matinees  of  the  Broadway 
stage  you  should  know.  .  .  . 

(Here  the  manuscript  ends.) 


ARISTOCRACY  VERSUS  HASH 

[  From  The  Rolling  Stone.] 

1  HE  snake  reporter  of  The  Rolling  Stone  was  wandering 
up  the  avenue  last  night  on  his  way  home  from  the  Y.  M. 
C.  A.  rooms  when  he  was  approached  by  a  gaunt,  hungry- 
looking  man  with  wild  eyes  and  dishevelled  hair.  He 
accosted  the  reporter  in  a  hollow,  weak  voice. 

;"  Can  you  tell  me,  Sir,  where  I  can  find  in  this  town  a 
family  of  scrubs?' 

"'I  don't  understand  exactly.' 

"'Let  me  tell  you  how  it  is,'  said  the  stranger,  insert 
ing  his  forefinger  in  the  reporter's  buttonhole  and  badly 
damaging  his  chrysanthemum.  'I  am  a  representative 
from  Soapstone  County,  and  I  and  my  family  are  house 
less,  homeless,  and  shelterless.  We  have  not  tasted  food 
for  over  a  week.  I  brought  my  family  with  me,  as  I  have 
indigestion  and  could  not  get  around  much  with  the  boys. 
Some  days  ago  I  started  out  to  find  a  boarding  house,  as 
I  cannot  afford  to  put  up  at  a  hotel.  I  found  a  nice 
aristocratic-looking  place,  that  suited  me,  and  went  in  and 
asked  for  the  proprietress.  A  very  stately  lady  with  a 
Roman  nose  came  in  the  room.  She  had  one  hand  laid 
across  her  stom  —  across  her  waist,  and  the  other  held  a 
lace  handkerchief.  I  told  her  I  wanted  board  for  myself 

199 


200  Rolling  Stones 

and  family,  and  she  condescended  to  take  us.     I  asked  for 
her  terms,  and  she  said  $300  per  week, 

"'I  hail  two  dollars  in  my  pocket  and  I  gave  her  that 
for  a  fine  teapot  that  I  broke  when  I  fell  over  the  table 
when  she  spoke/ 

"'You  appear  surprised/  says  she.  'You  will  please 
remembah  that  I  am  the  widow  of  Governor  Riddle  of 
Georgiah;  my  family  is  very  highly  connected;  I  give  you 
bcrird  as  a  favah;  I  nevah  considah  money  any  equivalent 
for  the  advantage  of  my  society,  I ' 

"'Well,  I  got  out  of  there,  and  I  went  to  some  other 
places.  The  next  lady  was  a  cousin  of  General  Mahone  of 
Virginia,  and  wanted  four  dollars  an  hour  for  a  back  room 
with  a  pink  motto  and  a  Burnet  granite  bed  in  it.  The 
next  one  was  an  aunt  of  Davy  Crockett,  and  asked  eight 
dollars  a  day  for  a  room  furnished  in  imitation  of  the 
Alamo,  with  prunes  for  breakfast  and  one  hour's  conver 
sation  with  her  for  dinner.  Another  one  said  she  was  a 
descendant  of  Benedict  Arnold  on  her  father's  side  and 
Captain  Kidd  on  the  other. 

"'She  took  more  after  Captain  Kidd. 

" '  She  only  had  one  meal  and  prayers  a  day,  and  counted 
her  society  worth  $100  a  week. 

'"I  found  nine  widows  of  Supreme  Judges,  twelve 
relicts  of  Governors  and  Generals,  and  twenty-two  ruins 
left  by  various  happy  Colonels,  Professors,  and  Majors, 
who  valued  their  aristocratic  worth  from  $90  to  $900  per 
week,  with  weak-kneed  hash  and  dried  apples  on  the 
side.  I  admire  people  of  fine  descent,  but  my  stomach 


Aristocracy  Versus  Hash  201 

yearns  for  pork  and  beans  instead  of  culture.  Am  I 
not  right?' 

"'  Your  words/  said  the  reporter,  'convince  me  that  you 
have  uttered  what  you  have  said.' 

"'Thanks.  You  see  how  it  is.  I  am  not  wealthy;  I 
have  only  my  per  diem  and  my  per  quisites,  and  I  cannot 
afford  to  pay  for  high  lineage  and  moldy  ancestors.  A 
little  corned  beef  goes  further  with  me  than  a  coronet, 
and  when  I  am  cold  a  coat  of  arms  does  not  warm  me.* 

'"I  greatly  fear,'  said  the  reporter,  with  a  playful  hic 
cough,  'that  you  have  run  against  a  high-toned  town. 
Most  all  the  first-class  boarding  houses  here  are  run  by 
ladies  of  the  old  Southern  families,  the  very  first  in  the 
land.' 

["I  am  now  desperate,'  said  the  Representative,  as  he 
chewed  a  tack  awhile,  thinking  it  was  a  clove.  '  I  want  to 
find  a  boarding  house  where  the  proprietress  was  an 
orphan  found  in  a  livery  stable,  whose  father  was  a  dago 
from  East  Austin,  and  whose  grandfather  was  never 
placed  on  the  map.  I  want  a  scrubby,  ornery,  low-down, 
snuff-dipping,  back-woodsy,  piebald  gang,  who  never 
heard  of  finger  bowls  or  Ward  McAllister,  but  who  can 
get  up  a  mess  of  hot  cornbread  and  Irish  stew  at  regular 
market  quotations. 

'"Is  there  such  a  place  in  Austin?' 

"The  snake  reporter  sadly  shook  his  head.  'I  ;  not 
know,'  he  said,  'but  I  will  shake  you  for  the  beer.' 

"Ten  minutes  later  the  slate  in  the  Blue  Ruin  saloon 
bore  two  additional  characters:  10." 


THE  PRISONER  OF  ZEMBLA 

[From  The  Rolling  Stone.] 

THE  king  fell  into  a  furious  rage,  so  that  none  durst 
go  near  him  for  fear,  and  he  gave  out  that  since  the  Princess 
Ostla  had  disobeyed  him  there  would  be  a  great  tourney, 
and  to  the  knight  who  should  prove  himself  of  the  greatest 
valor  he  would  give  the  hand  of  the  princess. 

And  he  sent  forth  a  herald  to  proclaim  that  he  would 
do  this. 

And  the  herald  went  about  the  country  making  his 
desire  known,  blowing  a  great  tin  horn  and  riding  a  noble 
steed  that  pranced  and  gambolled;  and  the  villagers  gazed 
upon  him  and  said:  "Lo,  that  is  one  of  them  tin  horn 
gamblers  concerning  which  the  chroniclers  have  told  us." 

And  when  the  day  cam©,  the  king  sat  in  the  grandstand, 
holding  the  gage  of  battle  in  his  hand,  and  by  his  side  sat 
the  Princess  Ostla,  looking  very  pale  and  beautiful,  but 
with  mournful  eyes  from  which  she  scarce  could  keep  the 
tears.  And  the  knights  which  came  to  the  tourney  gazed 
upon  the  princess  in  wonder  at  her  beauty,  and  each  swore 
to  win  her  so  that  he  could  marry  her  and  board  with  the 
king.  Suddenly  the  heart  of  the  princess  gave  a  great 
bound,  for  she  saw  among  the  knights  one  of  the  poor 
students  with  whom  she  had  been  in  love. 

202 


The  Prisoner  of  Zembla  203 

The  knights  mounted  and  rode  in  a  line  past  the  grand 
stand,  and  the  king  stopped  the  poor  student,  who  had 
the  worst  horse  and  the  poorest  caparisons  of  any  of  the 
knights  and  said: 

"Sir  Knight,  prithee  tell  me  of  what  that  marvellous 
shacky  and  rusty-looking  armor  of  thine  is  made?  " 

"Oh,  king,"  said  the  young  knight,  "seeing  that  we  are 
about  to  engage  in  a  big  fight,  I  would  call  it  scrap  iron, 
wouldn't  you?" 

"Ods  Bodkins!"  said  the  king.  "The  youth  hath  a 
pretty  wit." 

About  this  time  the  Princess  Ostla,  who  began  to  feel 
better  at  the  sight  of  her  lover,  slipped  a  piece  of  gum  into 
her  mouth  and  closed  her  teeth  upon  it,  and  even  smiled 
a  little  and  showed  the  beautiful  pearls  with  which  her 
mouth  was  set.  Whereupon,  as  soon  as  the  knights  per 
ceived  this,  217  of  them  went  over  to  the  king's  treasurer 
and  settled  for  their  horse  feed  and  went  home. 

"It  seems  very  hard,"  said  the  princess,  "that  I  cannot 
marry  when  I  chews." 

But  two  of  the  knights  were  left,  one  of  them  being  the 
princess5  lover. 

"Here's  enough  for  a  fight,  anyhow,"  said  the  king. 
"Come  hither,  O  knights,  will  ye  joust  for  the  hand  of 
this  fair  lady?" 

"We  joust  will,"  said  the  knights. 

The  two  knights  fought  for  two  hours,  and  at  length 
the  princess*  lover  prevailed  and  stretched  the  other 
upon  the  ground.  The  victorious  knight  made  his 


204  Rolling  Stones 

horse  caracole  before  the  king,  and  bowed  low  in  his 
saddle. 

On  the  Princess  Ostla's  cheeks  was  a  rosy  flush;  in  her 
eyes  the  light  of  excitement  vied  with  the  soft  glow  of 
love;  her  lips  were  parted,  her  lovely  hair  unbound,  and 
she  grasped  the  arms  of  her  chair  and  leaned  forward  with 
heaving  bosom  and  happy  smile  to  hear  the  words  of  her 
lover. 

"You  have  foughten  well,  sir  knight,"  said  the  king. 
"And  if  there  is  any  boon  you  crave  you  have  but  to  name 
it." 

"Then,"  said  the  knight,  "I  will  ask  you  this:  I  have 
bought  the  patent  rights  in  your  kingdom  for  Schneider's 
celebrated  monkey  wrench,  and  I  want  a  letter  from  you 
endorsing  it." 

"You  shall  have  it,"  said  the  king,  "but  I  must  tell  you 
that  there  is  not  a  monkey  in  my  kingdom." 

With  a  yell  of  rage  the  victorious  knight  threw  himself 
on  his  horse  and  rode  away  at  a  furious  gallop. 

The  king  was  about  to  speak,  when  a  horrible  suspicion 
flashed  upon  him  and  he  fell  dead  upon  the  grandstand. 

"My  God!"  he  cried.  "He  has  forgotten  to  take  the 
princess  with  him!" 


A  STRANGE  STORY 

[From  The  Rolling  Stone.] 

iN  THE  northern  part  of  Austin  there  once  dwelt  an 
honest  family  by  the  name  of  Smothers.  The  family 
consisted  of  John  Smothers,  his  wife,  himself,  their  little 
daughter,  five  years  of  age,  and  her  parents,  making  six 
people  toward  the  population  of  the  city  when  counted 
for  a  special  write-up,  but  only  three  by  actual  count. 

One  night  after  supper  the  little  girl  was  seized  with  a 
severe  colic,  and  John  Smothers  hurried  down  town  to  get 
some  medicine. 

He  never  came  back. 

The  little  girl  recovered  and  in  time  grew  up  to  woman 
hood. 

The  mother  grieved  very  much  over  her  husband's 
disappearance,  and  it  was  nearly  three  months  before  she 
married  again,  and  moved  to  San  Antonio. 

The  little  girl  also  married  in  time,  and  after  a  few 
years  had  rolled  around,  she  also  had  a  little  girl  five 
years  of  age. 

She  still  lived  in  the  same  house  where  they  dwelt 
when  her  father  had  left  and  never  returned. 

One  night  by  a  remarkable  coincidence  her  little  girl 
was  taken  with  cramp  colic  on  the  anniversary  of  the 

205 


206  Rolling  Stones 

disappearance  of  John  Smothers,  who  would  now  have 
been  her  grandfather  if  he  had  been  alive  and  had  a  steady 
job. 

"I  will  go  downtown  and  get  some  medicine  for  her," 
said  John  Smith  (for  it  was  none  other  than  he  whom  she 
had  married). 

"No,  no,  dear  John, "  cried  his  wife.  "You,  too,  might 
disappear  forever,  and  then  forget  to  come  back." 

So  John  Smith  did  not  go,  and  together  they  sat  by 
the  bedside  of  little  Pansy  (for  that  was  Pansy's  name). 

After  a  little  Pansy  seemed  to  grow  worse,  and  John 
Smith  again  attempted  to  go  for  medicine,  but  his  wife 
wbuld  not  let  him. 

Suddenly  the  door  opened,  and  an  old  man,  stooped  and 
bent,  with  long  white  hair,  entered  the  room. 

"Hello,  here  is  grandpa,"  said  Pansy.  She  had  recog 
nized  him  before  any  of  the  others. 

The  old  man  drew  a  bottle  of  medicine  from  his  pocket 
and  gave  Pansy  a  spoonful. 

She  got  well  immediately. 

"I  was  a  little  late,"  said  John  Smothers,  "as  I  waited 
for  a  street  car." 


FICKLE  FORTUNE  OR  HOW  GLADYS  HUSTLED 

[From  The  Rolling  Stone.] 

JrRESS  me  no  more  Mr.  Snooper,"  said  Gladys  Vavasour- 
€>mith.  "I  can  never  be  yours." 

"You  have  led  me  to  believe  different,  Gladys,"  said 
Bertram  D.  Snooper. 

The  setting  sun  was  flooding  with  golden  light  the  oriel 
windows  of  a  magnificent  mansion  situated  in  one  of  the 
most  aristocratic  streets  west  of  the  brick  yard. 

Bertram  D.  Snooper,  a  poor  but  ambitious  and  talented 
young  lawyer,  had  just  lost  his  first  suit.  He  had  dared 
to  aspire  to  the  hand  of  Gladys  Vavasour-Smith,  the 
beautiful  and  talented  daughter  of  one  of  the  oldest  and 
proudest  families  in  the  county.  The  bluest  blood 
flowed  in  her  veins.  Her  grandfather  had  sawed  wood  for 
the  Hornsbys  and  an  aunt  on  her  mother's  side  had  mar 
ried  a  man  who  had  been  kicked  by  General  Lee's  mule. 

The  lines  about  Bertram  D.  Snooper's  hands  and  mouth 
were  drawn  tighter  as  he  paced  to  and  fro,  waiting  for  a 
reply  to  the  question  he  intended  to  ask  Gladys  as  soon 
as  he  thought  of  one. 

At  last  an  idea  occurred  to  him. 

"Why  will  you  not  marry  me?  "he  asked  in  an  inaudible 
tone. 

207 


208  Rolling  Stones 

"Because,"  said  Gladys  firmly,  speaking  easily  with 
great  difficulty,  "the  progression  and  enlightenment  that 
the  woman  of  to-day  possesses  demand  that  the  man  shall 
bring  to  the  marriage  altar  a  heart  and  body  as  free  from 
the  debasing  and  hereditary  iniquities  that  now  no  longer 
exist  except  in  the  chimerical  imagination  of  enslaved 
custom." 

"It  is  as  I  expected,"  said  Bertram,  wiping  his  heated 
brow  on  the  window  curtain.  "You  have  been  reading 
books." 

"Besides  that,"  continued  Gladys,  ignoring  the  deadly 
charge,  "you  have  no  money." 

The  blood  of  the  Snoopers  rose  hastily  and  mantled  the 
cheek  of  Bertram  D.  He  put  on  his  coat  and  moved 
proudly  to  the  door. 

"Stay  here  till  I  return,"  he  said,  "I  will  be  back  in 
fifteen  years." 

When  he  had  finished  speaking  he  ceased  and  left  the 
room. 

When  he  had  gone,  Gladys  felt  an  uncontrollable  yearn 
ing  take  possession  of  her.  She  said  slowly,  rather  to 
herself  than  for  publication,  "I  wonder  if  there  was  any 
of  that  cold  cabbage  left  from  dinner." 

She  then  left  the  room. 

When  she  did  so,  a  dark-complexioned  man  with  black 
hair  and  gloomy,  desperate  looking  clothes,  came  out  of 
the  fireplace  where  he  had  been  concealed  and  stated: 

"Aha!  I  have  you  in  my  power  at  last,  Bertram  D. 
Snooper.  Gladys  Vavasour-Smith  shall  be  mine.  I  am 


Fickle  Fortune  209 

in  the  possession  of  secrets  that  not  a  soul  in  the  world 
suspects.  I  have  papers  to  prove  that  Bertram  Snooper 
is  the  heir  to  the  *Tom  Bean  estate,  and  I  have  discovered 
that  Gladys*  grandfather  who  sawed  wood  for  the  Horns- 
by's  was  also  a  cook  in  Major  Rhoads  Fisher's  command 
during  the  war.  Therefore,  the  family  repudiate  her, 
and  she  will  marry  me  in  order  to  drag  their  proud  name 
down  in  the  dust.  Ha,  ha,  ha!" 

As  the  reader  has  doubtless  long  ago  discovered,  this 
man  was  no  other  than  Henry  R.  Grasty.  Mr.  Grasty 
then  proceeded  to  gloat  some  more,  and  then  with  a 
sardonic  laugh  left  for  New  York. 

******* 

Fifteen  years  have  elapsed. 

Of  course,  our  readers  will  understand  that  this  is  only 
supposed  to  be  the  case. 

It  really  took  less  than  a  minute  to  make  the  little  stars 
that  represent  an  interval  of  time. 

We  could  not  afford  to  stop  a  piece  in  the  middle  and 
wait  fifteen  years  before  continuing  it. 

We  hope  this  explanation  will  suffice.  We  are  careful 
not  to  create  any  wrong  impressions. 

Gladys  Vavasour-Smith  and  Henry  R.  Grasty  stood 
at  the  marriage  altar. 

Mr.  Grasty  had  evidently  worked  his  rabbit's  foot  suc 
cessfully,  although  he  was  quite  a  while  in  doing  so. 

*An  estate  famous  in  Texas  legal  history.  It  took  many,  many  years 
for  adjustment  and  a  large  part  of  the  property  was,  of  course,  consumed 
as  expenses  of  litigation. 


210  Rolling  Stones 

Just  as  the  preacher  was  about  to  pronounce  the  fatal 
words  on  which  he  would  have  realized  ten  dollars  and  had 
the  laugh  on  Mr.  Grasty,  the  steeple  of  the  church  fell  off 
and  Bertram  D.  Snooper  entered. 

The  preacher  fell  to  the  ground  with  a  dull  thud.  He 
could  ill  afford  to  lose  ten  dollars.  He  was  hastily  removed 
and  a  cheaper  one  secured. 

Bertram  D.  Snooper  held  a  Statesman  in  his  hand. 

"Aha!"  he  said,  "I  thought  I  would  surprise  you.  I 
just  got  in  this  morning.  Here  is  a  paper  noticing  my 
arrival." 

He  handed  it  to  Henry  R.  Grasty. 

Mr.  Grasty  looked  at  the  paper  and  turned  deadly  pale. 
It  was  dated  three  weeks  after  Mr.  Snooper's  arrival. 

"Foiled  again!"  he  hissed. 

"Speak,  Bertram  D.  Snooper,"  said  Gladys,  "why  have 
you  come  between  me  and  Henry?" 

"I  have  just  discovered  that  I  am  the  sole  heir  to  Tom 
Bean's  estate  and  am  worth  two  million  dollars." 

With  a  glad  cry  Gladys  threw  herself  in  Bertram's 
arms. 

Henry  R.  Grasty  drew  from  his  breast  pocket  a  large 
tin  box  and  opened  it,  took  therefrom  467  pages  of  closely 
written  foolscap. 

"What  you  say  is  true,  Mr  .^Snooper,  but  I  ask  you  to 
read  that,"  he  said,  handing  it  to  Bertram  Snooper. 

Mr.  Snooper  had  no  sooner  read  the  document  than  he 
uttered  a  piercing  shriek  and  bit  off  a  large  chew  of  tobacco. 

"All  is  lost,"  he  said. 


Fickle  Fortune 
"What  is  that  document?'*  asked  Gladys.     "-Governor 


"  It  is  not  as  bad  as  that,"  said  Bertram,  "but  it  deprives 
me  of  my  entire  fortune.  But  I  care  not  for  that,  Gladys, 
since  I  have  won  you." 

"What  is  it?    Speak,  I  implore  you."  said  Gladys. 

"Those  papers,"  said  Henry  R.  Grasty,  "are  the  proofs 
of  my  appointment  as  administrator  of  the  Tom  Bean 
estate. 

With  a  loving  cry,  Gladys  threw  herself  in  Henry  R. 
Grasty's  arms. 

******* 

Twenty  minutes  later  Bertram  D.  Snooper  was  seen 
deliberately  to  enter  a  beer  saloon  on  Seventeenth  Street. 


AN  APOLOGY 

[This  appeared  in  The  Rotting  Stone  shortly  before  it  "sus 
pended  publication"  never  to  resume.] 

IHE  person  who  sweeps  the  office,  translates  letters  from 
foreign  countries,  deciphers  communications  from  gradu 
ates  of  business  colleges,  and  does  most  of  the  writing  for 
this  paper,  has  been  confined  for  the  past  two  weeks  to  the 
under  side  of  a  large  red  quilt,  with  a  joint  caucus  of  la 
grippe  and  measles. 

We  have  missed  two  issues  of  The  Rolling  Stone,  and 
are  now  slightly  convalescent,  for  which  we  desire  to 
apologize  and  express  our  regrets. 

Everybody's  term  of  subscription  will  be  extended 
enough  to  cover  all  missed  issues,  and  we  hope  soon  to 
report  that  the  goose  remains  suspended  at  a  favorable 
altitude.  People  who  have  tried  to  run  a  funny  paper 
and  entertain  a  congregation  of  large  piebald  measles  at 
the  same  time  will  understand  something  of  the  tact, 
finesse,  and  hot  sassafras  tea  required  to  do  so.  We  expect 
to  get  out  the  paper  regularly  from  this  time  on,  but  are 
forced  to  be  very  careful,  as  improper  treatment  and 
deleterious  after-effects  of  measles,  combined  with  the  high 
price  of  paper  and  presswork,  have  been  known  to  cause  a 
relapse.  Any  one  not  getting  their  paper  regularly  will 
please  come  down  and  see  about  it,  bringing  with  them  a 
ham  or  any  little  delicacy  relished  by  invalids. 

212 


LORD  OAKHURST'S  CURSE 

[This  story  was  sent  to  Dr.  Beall  of  Greensboro,  N.  C.  in  a  letter  in 
1883,  and  so  is  one  of  O.  Henry's  earliest  attempts  at  writing.] 


LORD  OAKHURST  lay  dying  in  the  oak  chamber  in 
the  eastern  wing  of  Oakhurst  Castle.  Through  the  open 
window  in  the  calm  of  the  summer  evening,  came  the 
sweet  fragrance  of  the  early  violets  and  budding  trees, 
and  to  the  dying  man  it  seemed  as  if  earth's  loveliness  and 
beauty  were  never  so  apparent  as  on  this  bright  June 
day,  his  last  day  of  life. 

His  young  wife,  whom  he  loved  with  a  devotion  and 
strength  that  the  presence  of  the  king  of  terrors  himself 
could  not  alter,  moved  about  the  apartment,  weeping  and 
sorrowful,  sometimes  arranging  the  sick  man's  pillow  and 
inquiring  of  him  in  low,  mournful  tones  if  anything  could 
be  done  to  give  him  comfort,  and  again,  with  stifled  sobs, 
eating  some  chocolate  caramels  which  she  carried  in  the 
pocket  of  her  apron.  The  servants  went  to  and  fro  with 
that  quiet  and  subdued  tread  which  prevails  in  a  house 
where  death  is  an  expected  guest,  and  even  the  crash  of 
broken  china  and  shivered  glass,  which  announced  their 
approach,  seemed  to  fall  upon  the  ear  with  less  violence 
and  sound  than  usual. 

213 


Rolling  Stones 

Lord  Oakhurst  was  thinking  of  days  gone  by,  when  he 
wooed  and  won  his  beautiful  young  wife,  who  was  then 
but  a  charming  and  innocent  girl.  How  clearly  and 
minutely  those  scenes  rose  up  at  the  call  of  his  memory; 
He  seemed  to  be  standing  once  more  beneath  the  old 
chestnut  grove  where  they  had  plighted  their  troth  in  the 
twilight  under  the  stars;  while  the  rare  fragrance  of  the 
June  roses  and  the  smell  of  supper  came  gently  by  on  the 
breeze.  There  he  had  told  her  his  love;  how  that  his 
whole  happiness  and  future  joy  lay  in  the  hope  that 
he  might  win  her  for  a  bride;  that  if  she  would  trust 
her  future  to  his  care  the  devotedness  of  his  lifetime 
should  be  hers,  and  his  only  thought  would  be  to 
make  her  life  one  long  day  of  sunshine  and  peanut 
candy. 

How  plainly  he  remembered  how  she  had,  with  girlish 
shyness  and  coyness,  at  first  hesitated,  and  murmured 
something  to  herself  about  "an  old  bald-headed  galoot," 
but  when  he  told  her  that  to  him  life  without  her  would  be 
a  blasted  mockery,  and  that  his  income  was  £50,000  a 
year,  she  threw  herself  on  to  him  and  froze  there  with  the 
tenacity  of  a  tick  on  a  brindled  cow,  and  said,  with  tears 
of  joy,  "Hen-ery,  I  am  thine." 

And  now  he  was  dying.  In  a  few  short  hours  his  spirit 
would  rise  up  at  the  call  of  the  Destroyer  and,  quitting 
his  poor,  weak,  earthly  frame,  would  go  forth  into  that 
dim  and  dreaded  Unknown  Land,  and  solve  with 
certainty  that  Mystery  which  revealeth  itself  not  to 
mortal  man. 


Lord  Oakhursfs  Curse  215 


A  carriage  drove  rapidly  up  the  avenue  and  stopped  at 
the  door.  Sir  Everhard  FitzArmond,  the  famous  London 
physician,  who  had  been  telegraphed  for,  alighted  and 
quickly  ascended  the  marble  steps.  Lady  Oakhurst  met 
him  at  the  door,  her  lovely  face  expressing  great  anxiety 
and  grief.  "Oh,  Sir  Everhard,  I  am  so  glad  you  have 
come.  He  seems  to  be  sinking  rapidly.  Did  you  bring 
the  cream  almonds  I  mentioned  in  the  telegram?  " 

Sir  Everhard  did  not  reply,  but  silently  handed  her  a 
package,  and,  slipping  a  couple  of  cloves  into  his  mouth, 
ascended  the  stairs  that  led  to  Lord  Oakhurst's  apartment. 
Lady  Oakhurst  followed. 

Sir  Everhard  approached  the  bedside  of  his  patient  and 
laid  his  hand  gently  on  this  sick  man's  diagnosis.  A  shade 
of  feeling  passed  over  his  professional  countenance  as  he 
gravely  and  solemnly  pronounced  these  words :  "  Madam, 
your  husband  has  croaked." 

Lady  Oakhurst  at  first  did  not  comprehend  his  technical 
language,  and  her  lovely  mouth  let  up  for  a  moment  on 
the  cream  almonds.  But  soon  his  meaning  flashed  upon 
her,  and  she  seized  an  axe  that  her  husband  was  accustomed 
to  keep  by  his  bedside  to  mangle  his  servants  with,  and 
struck  open  Lord  Oakhurst's  cabinet  containing  his  pri 
vate  papers,  and  with  eager  hands  opened  the  document 
which  she  took  therefrom.  Then,  with  a  wild,  unearthly 
shriek  that  would  have  made  a  steam  piano  go  out  behind  a 
barn  and  kick  itself  in  despair,  she  fell  senseless  to  the  floor. 


216  Rolling  Stones 

Sir  Everhard  FitzArmond  picked  up  the  paper  and  read 
its  contents.  It  was  Lord  Oakhurst's  will,  bequeathing 
all  his  property  to  a  scientific  institution  which  should 
have  for  its  object  the  invention  of  a  means  for  extracting 
peach  brandy  from  sawdust. 

Sir  Everhard  glanced  quickly  around  the  room.  No 
one  was  in  sight.  Dropping  the  will,  he  rapidly  transferred 
some  valuable  ornaments  and  rare  specimens  of  gold  and 
silver  filigree  work  from  the  centre  table  to  his  pockets, 
and  rang  the  bell  for  the  servants. 

Ill  —  THE  CURSE 

Sir  Everhard  FitzArmond  descended  the  stairway  of 
Oakhurst  Castle  and  passed  out  into  the  avenue  that  led 
from  the  doorway  to  the  great  iron  gates  of  the  park. 
Lord  Oakhurst  had  been  a  great  sportsman  during  his 
life  and  always  kept  a  well-stocked  kennel  of  curs,  which 
now  rushed  out  from  their  hiding  places  and  with  loud 
yelps  sprang  upon  the  physician,  burying  their  fangs  in  his 
lower  limbs  and  seriously  damaging  his  apparel. 

Sir  Everhard,  startled  out  of  his  professional  dignity 
and  usual  indifference  to  human  suffering,  by  the  personal 
application  of  feeling,  gave  vent  to  a  most  horrible  and 
blighting  CURSE  and  ran  with  great  swiftness  to  his 
carriage  and  drove  off  toward  the  city. 


BEXAR  SCRIP  NO.  2692 

[Prom  The  Rotting  Stone,  Saturday,  March  5,  1894  1 

VrHENEVER  you  visit  Austin  you  should  by  all  means 
go  to  see  the  General  Land  Office. 

As  you  pass  up  the  avenue  you  turn  sharp  round  the 
corner  of  the  court  house,  and  on  a  steep  hill  before  you 
you  see  a  mediaeval  castle. 

You  think  of  the  Rhine;  the  "castled  crag  of  Drachen- 
fels";  the  Lorelei;  and  the  vine-clad  slopes  of  Germany. 
And  German  it  is  in  every  line  of  its  architecture  and 
design. 

The  plan  was  drawn  by  an  old  draftsman  from  the 
"Vaterland,"  whose  heart  still  loved  the  scenes  of  his 
native  land,  and  it  is  said  he  reproduced  the  design  of 
a  certain  castle  near  his  birthplace,  with  remarkable 
fidelity. 

Under  the  present  administration  a  new  coat  of  paint 
has  vulgarized  its  ancient  and  venerable  walls.  Modern 
tiles  have  replaced  the  limestone  slabs  of  its  floors,  worn 
in  hollows  by  the  tread  of  thousands  of  feet,  and  smart 
and  gaudy  fixtures  have  usurped  the  place  of  the  time- 
worn  furniture  that  has  been  consecrated  by  the  touch  of 
hands  that  Texas  will  never  cease  to  honor. 

But  even  now,  when  you  enter  the  building,  you  lower 

217 


218  Rolling  Stones 

your  voice,  and  time  turns  backward  for  you,  for  the  at 
mosphere  which  you  breathe  is  cold  with  the  exudations 
of  buried  generations. 

The  building  is  stone  with  a  coating  of  concrete;  the 
walls  are  immensely  thick;  it  is  cool  in  the  summer  and 
warm  in  the  winter;  it  is  isolated  and  sombre;  standing 
apart  from  the  other  state  buildings,  sullen  and  decaying, 
brooding  on  the  past. 

Twenty  years  ago  it  was  much  the  same  as  now;  twenty 
years  from  now  the  garish  newness  will  be  worn  off  and  it 
will  return  to  its  appearance  of  gloomy  decadence. 

People  living  in  other  states  can  form  no  conception  of 
the  vastness  and  importance  of  the  work  performed  and 
the  significance  of  the  millions  of  records  and  papers  com 
posing  the  archives  of  this  office. 

The  title  deeds,  patents,  transfers  and  legal  documents 
connected  with  every  foot  of  land  owned  in  the  state  of 
Texas  are  filed  here. 

Volumes  could  be  filled  with  accounts  of  the  knavery, 
the  double-dealing,  the  cross  purposes,  the  perjury,  the 
lies,  the  bribery,  the  alteration  and  erasing,  the  suppress 
ing  and  destroying  of  papers,  the  various  schemes  and 
plots  that  for  the  sake  of  the  almighty  dollar  have  left 
their  stains  upon  the  records  of  the  General  Land  Office. 

No  reference  is  made  to  the  employees.  No  more 
faithful,  competent  and  efficient  force  of  men  exists  in  the 
clerical  portions  of  any  government,  but  there  is  —  or 
was,  for  their  day  is  now  over  —  a  class  of  land  speculators 
commonly  called  land  sharks,  unscrupulous  and  greedy, 


Bexar  Scrip  No.  2692  219 

who  have  left  their  trail  in  every  department  of  this  office, 
in  the  shape  of  titles  destroyed,  patents  cancelled,  homes 
demolished  and  torn  away,  forged  transfers  and  lying 
affidavits. 

Before  the  modern  tiles  were  laid  upon  the  floors,  there 
were  deep  hollows  in  the  limestone  slabs,  worn  by  the 
countless  feet  that  daily  trod  uneasily  through  its  echoing 
corridors,  pressing  from  file  room  to  business  room,  from 
commissioner's  sanctum  to  record  books  and  back  again. 

The  honest  but  ignorant  settler,  bent  on  saving  the 
little  plot  of  land  he  called  home,  elbowed  the  wary  land 
shark  who  was  searching  the  records  for  evidence  to  oust 
him;  the  lordly  cattle  baron,  relying  on  his  influence  and 
money,  stood  at  the  Commissioner's  desk  side  by  side  with 
the  preemptor,  whose  little  potato  patch  lay  like  a  minute 
speck  of  island  in  the  vast,  billowy  sea  of  his  princely 
pastures,  and,  played  the  old  game  of  "freeze-out,"  which 
is  as  old  as  Cain  and  Abel. 

The  trail  of  the  serpent  is  through  it  all. 

Honest,  earnest  men  have  wrought  for  generations 
striving  to  disentangle  the  shameful  coil  that  certain 
years  of  fraud  and  infamy  have  wound.  Look  at  the 
files  and  see  the  countless  endorsements  of  those  in 
authority: 

"Transfer  doubtful  —  locked  up." 

"Certificate  a  forgery  —  locked  up." 

"Signature  a  forgery." 

"Patent  refused  —  duplicate  patented  elsewhere." 

"Field  notes  forged." 


220  Rolling  Stones 

"Certificates  stolen  from  office"  —  and  soon  ad  in- 
finitum. 

The  record  books,  spread  upon  long  tables,  in  the  big 
room  upstairs,  are  open  to  the  examination  of  all. 

Open  them,  and  you  will  find  the  dark  and  greasy 
finger  prints  of  half  a  century's  handling.  The  quick 
hand  of  the  land  grabber  has  fluttered  the  leaves  a  million 
times;  the  damp  clutch  of  the  perturbed  tiller  of  the  soil 
has  left  traces  of  his  calling  on  the  ragged  leaves. 

Interest  centres  in  the  file  room. 

This  is  a  large  room,  built  as  a  vault,  fireproof,  and 
entered  by  but  a  single  door. 

There  is  "No  Admission"  on  the  portal;  and  the 
precious  files  are  handed  out  by  a  clerk  in  charge  only  on 
presentation  of  an  order  signed  by  the  Commissioner  or 
chief  clerk. 

In  years  past  too  much  laxity  prevailed  in  its  manage 
ment,  and  the  files  were  handled  by  all  comers,  simply  on 
their  request,  and  returned  at  their  will,  or  not  at  all. 

In  these  days  most  of  the  mischief  was  done.  In  the 

file  room,  there  are  about files,  each  in  a  paper 

wrapper,  and  comprising  the  title  papers  of  a  particular 
tract  of  land. 

You  ask  the  clerk  in  charge  for  the  papers  relating  to 
any  survey  in  Texas.  They  are  arranged  simply  in  dis 
tricts  and  numbers. 

He  disappears  from  the  door,  you  hear  the  sliding  of 
a  tin  box,  the  lid  snaps,  and  the  file  is  in  your  hand. 

Go  up  there  some  day  and  call  for  Bexar  Scrip  No.  2692. 


Bexar  Scrip  No.  2692 

The  file  clerk  stares  at  you  for  a  second,  says  shortly: 

"Out  of  file." 

It  has  been  missing  twenty  years. 

The  history  of  that  file  has  never  been  written  before. 

Twenty  years  ago  there  was  a  shrewd  land  agent  living 
in  Austin  who  devoted  his  undoubted  talents  and  vast 
knowledge  of  land  titles,  and  the  laws  governing  them, 
to  the  locating  of  surveys  made  by  illegal  certificates,  or 
improperly  made,  and  otherwise  of  no  value  through  non- 
compliance  with  the  statutes,  or  whatever  flaws  his  in 
genious  and  unscrupulous  mind  could  unearth. 

He  found  a  fatal  defect  in  the  title  of  the  land  as  on  file 
in  Bexar  Scrip  No.  2692  and  placed  a  new  certificate  upon 
the  survey  in  his  own  name. 

The  law  was  on  his  side. 

Every  sentiment  of  justice,  of  right,  and  humanity  was 
against  him. 

The  certificate  by  virtue  of  which  the  original  survey 
had  been  made  was  missing. 

It  was  not  to  be  found  in  the  file,  and  no  memorandum 
or  date  on  the  wrapper  to  show  that  it  had  ever  been  filed. 

Under  the  law  the  land  was  vacant,  unappropriated 
public  domain,  and  open  to  location. 

The  land  was  occupied  by  a  widow  and  her  only  son, 
and  she  supposed  her  title  good. 

The  railroad  had  surveyed  a  new  line  through  the 
property,  and  it  had  doubled  in  value. 

Sharp,  the  land  agent,  did  not  communicate  with  her 
in  any  way  until  he  had  filed  his  papers,  rushed  his  claim 


222  Rolling  Stones 

through  the  departments  and  into  the  patent  room  for 
patenting. 

Then  he  wrote  her  a  letter,  offering  her  the  choice  of 
buying  from  him  or  vacating  at  once. 

He  received  no  reply. 

One  day  he  was  looking  through  some  files  and  came 
across  the  missing  certificate.  Some  one,  probably  an 
employee  of  the  office,  had  by  mistake,  after  making 
some  examination,  placed  it  in  the  wrong  file,  and  curiously 
enough  another  inadvertence,  in  there  being  no  record  of 
its  filing  on  the  wrapper,  had  completed  the  appearance 
of  its  having  never  been  filed. 

Sharp  called  for  the  file  in  which  it  belonged  and  scru 
tinized  it  carefully,  fearing  he  might  have  overlooked  some 
endorsement  regarding  its  return  to  the  office. 

On  the  back  of  the  certificate  was  plainly  endorsed 
the  date  of  filing,  according  to  law,  and  signed  by 
the  chief  clerk. 

If  this  certificate  should  be  seen  by  the  examining 
clerk,  his  own  claim,  when  it  came  up  for  patenting,  would 
not  be  worth  the  paper  on  which  it  was  written. 

Sharp  glanced  furtively  around.  A  young  man,  or 
rather  a  boy  about  eighteen  years  of  age,  stood  a  few  feet 
away  regarding  him  closely  with  keen  black  eyes. 

Sharp,  a  little  confused,  thrust  the  certificate  into  the 
file  where  it  properly  belonged  and  began  gathering  up  the 
other  papers. 

The  boy  came  up  and  leaned  on  the  desk  beside  him. 

"A  right  interesting  office,  sir ! "  he  said.     "I  have  never 


Bexar  Scrip  No.  2692  223 

been  in  here  before.  All  those  papers,  now,  they  are 
about  lands,  are  they  not?  The  titles  and  deeds,  and 
such  things?" 

"Yes,"  said  Sharp.  "They  are  supposed  to  contain 
all  the  title  papers." 

"This  one,  now,"  said  the  boy,  taking  up  Bexar  Scrip 
No.  2692,  "what  land  does  this  represent  the  title  of  ? 

Ah,  I  see  *  Six  hundred  and  forty  acres  in  B country? 

Absalom  Harris,  original  grantee.'  Please  tell  me,  I  am 
so  ignorant  of  these  things,  how  can  you  tell  a  good  survey 
from  a  bad  one.  I  am  told  that  there  are  a  great  many 
illegal  and  fraudulent  surveys  in  this  office.  I  suppose 
this  one  is  all  right?" 

"No,"  said  Sharp.  "The  certificate  is  missing.  It  is 
invalid." 

"That  paper  I  just  saw  you  place  in  that  file,  I  suppose 
is  something  else  —  field  notes,  or  a  transfer  probably?  " 

"Yes,"  said  Sharp,  hurriedly,  "corrected  field  notes. 
Excuse  me,  I  am  a  little  pressed  for  time." 

The  boy  was  watching  him  with  bright,  alert  eyes. 

It  would  never  do  to  leave  the  certificate  in  the  file; 
but  he  could  not  take  it  out  with  that  inquisitive  boy 
watching  him. 

He  turned  to  the  file  room,  with  a  dozen  or  more  files 
in  his  hands,  and  accidentally  dropped  part  of  them  on 
the  floor.  As  he  stooped  to  pick  them  up  he  swiftly 
thrust  Bexar  Scrip  No.  2692  in  the  inside  breast  pocket 
of  his  coat. 

This  happened  at  just  half-past  four  o'clock,  and  when 


Rolling  Stones 

the  file  clerk  took  the  files  he  threw  them  in  a  pile  in  his 
room,  came  out  and  locked  the  door. 

The  clerks  were  moving  out  of  the  doors  in  long,  strag 
gling  lines. 

It  was  closing  time. 

Sharp  did  not  desire  to  take  the  file  from  the  Land  Office. 

The  boy  might  have  seen  him  place  the  file  in  his  pocket, 
and  the  penalty  of  the  law  for  such  an  act  was  very  severe. 

Some  distance  back  from  the  file  room  was  the  drafts 
man's  room  now  entirely  vacated  by  its  occupants. 

Sharp  dropped  behind  the  outgoing  stream  of  men,  and 
slipped  slyly  into  this  room. 

The  clerks  trooped  noisily  down  the  iron  stairway, 
singing,  whistling,  and  talking. 

Below,  the  night  watchman  awaited  their  exit,  ready  to 
close  and  bar  the  two  great  doors  to  the  south  and  east. 

It  is  his  duty  to  take  careful  note  each  day  that  no  one 
remains  in  the  building  after  the  hour  of  closing. 

Sharp  waited  until  all  sounds  had  ceased. 

It  was  his  intention  to  linger  until  everything  was 
quiet,  and  then  to  remove  the  certificate  from  the  file,  and 
throw  the  latter  carelessly  on  some  draftsman's  desk,  as  if 
it  had  been  left  there  during  the  business  of  the  day. 

He  knew  also  that  he  must  remove  the  certificate  from 
the  office  or  destroy  it,  as  the  chance  finding  of  it  by  a 
clerk  would  lead  to  its  immediately  being  restored  to  its 
proper  place,  and  the  consequent  discovery  that  his  lo 
cation  over  the  old  survey  was  absolutely  worthless. 

As  he  moved  cautiously  along  the  stone  floor  the  loud 


Bexar  Scrip  No.  2692 

barking  of  the  little  black  dog,  kept  by  the  watchman,  told 
that  his  sharp  ears  had  heard  the  sounds  of  his  steps. 

The  great,  hollow  rooms  echoed  loudly,  move  as  lightly 
as  he  could. 

Sharp  sat  down  at  a  desk  and  laid  the  file  before  him. 

In  all  his  queer  practices  and  cunning  tricks  he  had  not 
yet  included  any  act  that  was  downright  criminal. 

He  had  always  kept  on  the  safe  side  of  the  law,  but  in 
deed  he  was  about  to  commit  there  was  no  compro 
mise  to  be  made  with  what  little  conscience  he  had  left. 

There  is  no  well-defined  boundary  line  between  honesty 
and  dishonesty. 

The  frontiers  of  one  blend  with  the  outside  limits  of  the 
other,  and  he  who  attempts  to  tread  this  dangerous 
ground  may  be  sometimes  in  one  domain  and  sometimes 
m  the  other;  so  the  only  safe  road  is  the  broad  highway 
that  leads  straight  through  and  has  beea  well  defined  by 
line  and  compass. 

Sharp  was  a  man  of  what  is  called  high  standing  in  the 
t'.ommunity.  That  is,  his  word  in  a  trade  was  as  good  as 
any  man's;  his  check  was  as  good  as  so  much  cash,  and  so 
regarded;  he  went  to  church  regularly;  went  in  good 
society  and  owed  no  man  anything. 

He  was  regarded  as  a  sure  winner  in  any  land  trade  he 
chose  to  make,  but  that  was  his  occupation. 

The  act  he  was  about  to  commit  now  would  place  him 
forever  in  the  ranks  of  those  who  choose  evil  for  their 
portion  —  if  it  was  found  out. 

More  than  that,  it  would  rob  a  widow  and  her  son 


Rolling  Stones 

of  property  soon  to  be  of  great  value,  which,  if  not  legally 
theirs,  was  theirs  certainly  by  every  claim  of  justice. 

But  he  had  gone  too  far  to  hesitate. 

His  own  survey  was  in  the  patent  room  for  patenting. 
His  own  title  was  about  to  be  perfected  by  the  State's 
own  hand.  * 

The  certificate  must  be  destroyed. 

He  leaned  his  head  on  his  hands  for  a  moment,  and  as 
he  did  so  a  sound  behind  him  caused  his  heart  to  leap 
with  guilty  fear,  but  before  he  could  rise,  a  hand  came 
over  his  shoulder  and  grasped  the  file. 

He  rose  quickly,  as  white  as  paper,  rattling  his  chair 
loudly  on  the  stone  floor. 

The  boy  who  had  spoken  to  him  earlier  stood  con 
templating  him  with  contemptuous  and  flashing  eyes,  and 
quietly  placed  the  file  in  the  left  breast  pocket  of  his  coat. 

"So,  Mr.  Sharp,  by  nature  as  well  as  by  name,"  he  said, 
"it  seems  that  I  was  right  in  waiting  behind  the  door  in 
order  to  see  you  safely  out.  You  will  appreciate  the 
pleasure  I  feel  in  having  done  so  when  I  tell  you  my  name 
is  Harris.  My  mother  owns  the  land  on  which  you  have 
filed,  and  if  there  is  any  justice  in  Texas  she  shall  hold  it. 
I  am  not  certain  but  I  think  I  saw  you  place  a  paper  in 
this  file  this  afternoon,  and  it  is  barely  possible  that  it  may 
be  of  value  to  me.  I  was  also  impressed  with  the  idea 
that  you  desired  to  remove  it  again,  but  had  not  the 
opportunity.  Anyway,  I  shall  keep  it  until  to-morrow 
and  let  the  Commissioner  decide." 

Far  back  among  Mr.  Sharp's  ancestors  there  must  have 


Bexar  Scrip  No.  2692  227 

been  some  of  the  old  berserker  blood,  for  his  caution,  his 
presence  of  mind  left  him,  and  left  him  possessed  of  a 
blind,  devilish,  unreasoning  rage  that  showed  itself  in 
a  moment  in  the  white  glitter  of  his  eye. 

"Give  me  that  file,  boy,"  he  said,  thickly,  holding  out 
his  hand. 

"I  am  no  such  fool,  Mr.  Sharp,"  said  the  youth.  "This 
file  shall  be  laid  before  the  Commissioner  to-morrow  for 
examination.  If  he  finds Help !  Help ! " 

Sharp  was  upon  him  like  a  tiger  and  bore  him  to  the 
floor.  The  boy  was  strong  and  vigorous,  but  the  sudden 
ness  of  the  attack  gave  him  no  chance  to  resist.  He 
struggled  up  again  to  his  feet,  but  it  was  an  animal,  with 
blazing  eyes  and  cruel-looking  teeth  that  fought  him, 
instead  of  a  man. 

Mr.  Sharp,  a  man  of  high  standing  and  good  report,  was 
battling  for  his  reputation. 

Presently  there  was  a  dull  sound,  and  another,  and  still 
one  more,  and  a  blade  flashing  white  and  then  red,  and 
Edward  Harris  dropped  down  like  some  stuffed  effigy  of 
a  man,  that  boys  make  for  sport,  with  his  limbs  all 
crumpled  and  lax,  on  the  stone  floor  of  the  Land  Office. 

The  old  watchman  was  deaf,  and  heard  nothing. 

The  little  dog  barked  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs  until  his 
master  made  him  come  into  his  room. 

Sharp  stood  there  for  several  minutes  holding  in  his 
hand  his  bloody  clasp  knife,  listening  to  the  cooing  of  the 
pigeons  on  the  roof,  and  the  loud  ticking  of  the  clock 
above  the  receiver's  desk. 


Rolling  Stones 

A  map  rustled  on  the  wall  and  his  blood  turned  to  ice; 
a  rat  ran  across  some  strewn  papers,  and  his  scalp  prickled, 
and  he  could  scarcely  moisten  his  dry  lips  with  his  tongue. 

Between  the  file  room  and  the  draftsman's  room  there 
is  a  door  that  opens  on  a  small  dark  spiral  stairway  that 
winds  from  the  lower  floor  to  the  ceiling  at  the  top  oi 
the  house. 

This  stairway  was  not  used  then,  nor  is  it  now. 

It  is  unnecessary,  inconvenient,  dusty,  and  dark  as 
night,  and  was  a  blunder  of  the  architect  who  designed 
the  building. 

This  stairway  ends  above  at  the  tent-shaped  space 
between  the  roof  and  the  joists. 

That  space  is  dark  and  forbidding,  and  being  useless  is 
rarely  visited. 

Sharp  opened  this  door  and  gazed  for  a  moment  up 
this  narrow,  cobwebbed  stairway. 

After  dark  that  night  a  man  opened  cautiously  one 
of  the  lower  windows  of  the  Land  Office,  crept  out  with 
great  circumspection  and  disappeared  in  the  shadows. 

One  afternoon,  a  week  after  this  time,  Sharp  lingered 
behind  again  after  the  clerks  had  left  and  the  office  closed. 

The  next  morning  the  first  comers  noticed  a  broad 
mark  in  the  dust  on  the  upstairs  floor,  and  the  same  mark 
was  observed  below  stairs  near  a  window. 

It  appeared  as  if  some  heavy  and  rather  bulky  object 
had  been  dragged  along  through  the  limestone  dust. 


Bexar  Scrip  No.  2692 

A  memorandum  book  with  "E.  Harris"  written  on  the 
flyleaf  was  picked  up  on  the  stairs,  but  nothing  particular 
was  thought  of  any  of  these  signs. 

Circulars  and  advertisements  appeared  for  a  long  time 
in  the  papers  asking  for  information  concerning  Edward 
Harris,  who  left  his  mother's  home  on  a  certain  date  and 
had  never  been  heard  of  since. 

After  a  while  these  things  were  succeeded  by  affairs 
of  more  recent  interest,  and  faded  from  the  public  mind. 

Sharp  died  two  years  ago,  respected  and  regretted. 
The  last  two  years  of  his  life  were  clouded  with  a  settled 
melancholy  for  which  his  friends  could  assign  no  reason. 

The  bulk  of  his  comfortable  fortune  was  made  from  the 
land  he  obtained  by  fraud  and  crime. 

The  disappearance  of  the  file  was  a  mystery  that 
created  some  commotion  in  the  Land  Office,  but  he  got 
his  patent. 

It  is  a  well-known  tradition  in  Austin  and  vicinity  that 
there  is  a  buried  treasure  of  great  value  somewhere  on  the 
banks  of  Shoal  Creek,  about  a  mile  west  of  the  city. 

Three  young  men  living  in  Austin  recently  became 
possessed  of  what  they  thought  was  a  clue  of  the  where 
abouts  of  the  treasure,  and  Thursday  night  they  repaired 
to  the  place  after  dark  and  plied  the  pickaxe  and  shovel 
with  great  diligence  for  about  three  hours. 

At  the  end  of  that  time  their  efforts  were  rewarded  by 


230  Rolling  Stones 

the  finding  of  a  box  buried  about  four  feet  below  the 
surface,  which  they  hastened  to  open. 

The  light  of  a  lantern  disclosed  to  their  view  the  flesh- 
less  bones  of  a  human  skeleton  with  clothing  still  wrapping 
its  uncanny  limbs. 

They  immediately  left  the  scene  and  notified  the  proper 
authorities  of  their  ghastly  find. 

On  closer  examination,  in  the  left  breast  pocket  of  the 
skeleton's  coat,  there  was  found  a  flat,  oblong  packet  of 
papers,  cut  through  and  through  in  three  places  by  a 
knife  blade,  and  so  completely  soaked  and  clotted  with 
blood  that  it  had  become  an  almost  indistinguishable  mass. 

With  the  aid  of  a  microscope  and  the  exercise  of  a  little 
imagination  this  much  can  be  made  out  of  the  letters 
at  the  top  of  the  papers : 

B  — xa—      rip  N  —  2  —  92. 


QUERIES  AND  ANSWERS 

[From  The  Rolling  Stone,  June  23, 1894.] 

Can  you  inform  me  where  I  can  buy  an  interest  in 
a  newspaper  of  some  kind?  I  have  some  money  and 
would  be  glad  to  invest  it  in  something  of  the  sort,  if  some 
one  would  allow  me  to  put  in  my  capital  against  his 
experience.  COLLEGE  GRADUATE. 

Telegraph  us  your  address  at  once,  day  message.  Keep 
telegraphing  every  ten  minutes  at  our  expense  until  we 
see  you.  Will  start  on  first  train  after  receiving  your  wire. 

Who  was  the  author  of  the  line,  "Breathes  there  a  man 
with  soul  so  dead?"  G.  F. 

This  was  written  by  a  visitor  to  the  State  Saengerfest 
of  1892  while  conversing  with  a  member  who  had  just 
eaten  a  large  slice  of  limburger  cheese. 


Where  can  I  get  the  "Testimony  of  the  Rocks"? 

GEOLOGIST. 

See  the  reports  of  the  campaign  committees  after  the 
election  in  November. 


Please  state  what  the  seven  wonders  of  the  world  are. 
I  know  five  of  them,  I  think,  but  can't  find  out 
the  other  two.  SCHOLAR 

231 


Rolling  Stones 

The  Temple  of  Diana,  at  Lexington,  Ky . ;  the  Great  Wall 
of  China;  Judge  Von  Rosenberg  (the  Colossus  of  Roads); 
the  Hanging  Gardens  at  Albany;  a  San  Antonio  Sunday 
school;  Mrs.  Frank  Leslie,  and  the  Populist  party. 


What  day  did  Christmas  come  on  in  the  year  1847? 

CONSTANT  READER 
The  25th  of  December. 


What  does  an  F.  F.  V.  mean?  IGNORANT. 

What  does  he  mean  by  what?  If  he  takes  you  by  the 
arm  and  tells  you  how  much  you  are  like  a  brother  of  his 
in  Richmond,  he  means  Feel  For  Your  Vest,  for  he  wants 
to  borrow  a  five.  If  he  holds  his  head  high  and  don't 
speak  to  you  on  the  street  he  means  that  he  already  owes 
you  ten  and  is  Following  a  Fresh  Victim. 


Please  decide  a  bet  for  us.  My  friend  says  that  the 
sentence,  "The  negro  bought  the  watermelon  of  the 
farmer"  is  correct,  and  I  say  it  should  be  "The  negro 
bought  the  watermelon  from  the  farmer.  Which  is 
correct?  R. 

Neither.  It  should  read,  "The  negro  stole  the  water 
melon  from  the  farmer." 


When  do  the  Texas  game  laws  go  into  effect? 

HUNTER. 
When  you  sit  down  at  the  table. 


?OL.II.   NO.  I3L 


PRICE  FIVE  CENTO. 


ADSTTO,  TEXAS,  SATURDAY,  APRIL  27,  1895. 


THE  TEXAS  WAY. 


Miss  POTTER:    "Oh  papa,  what  is  that?* 

MR  .  POTTER  of  Texas:    "That's  a  live  do  mt  I  bought  for  you  in  New  York . " 

Miss  POTTER;    "Oh,  how  nice,  and  Uncle  George  gave  me  a  new  six  shooter,  and  the  dogs  haven't  had  any  exercise  i 
i  week.      Won't  it  be  fun  ?" 


VOL.  I.     No.  27.  AUSTIN,  TKXAS,  SATURDAY,  OCTOBER  i3,  i89l. 


Price  5c. 


CAN   HE   MAKE  THE  JUMP? 


Queries  and  Answers  233 

Do  you  know  where  I  can  trade  a  section  of  fine  Pan 
handle  land  for  a  pair  of  pants  with  a  good  title? 

LAND  AGENT. 

"We  do  not.  You  can't  raise  anything  on  land  in  that 
section.  A  man  can  always  raise  a  dollar  on  a  good 
pair  of  pants. 

Name  in  order  the  three  best  newspapers  in  Texas. 

ADVERTISER. 

Well,  the  Galveston  News  runs  about  second,  and  the 
San  Antonio  Express  third.  Let  us  hear  from  you  again. 


Has  a  married  woman  any  rights  in  Texas? 

PROSPECTOR. 

Hush,  Mr.  Prospector.  Not  quite  so  loud,  if  you  please. 
Come  up  to  the  office  some  afternoon,  and  if  everything 
seems  quiet,  come  inside,  and  look  at  our  eye,  and  our 
suspenders  hanging  on  to  one  button,  and  feel  the  lump  on 
the  top  of  our  head.  Yes,  she  has  some  rights  of  her  own, 
and  everybody  else's  she  can  scoop  in. 


Who  was  the  author  of  the  sayings,  "A  public  office  is 
a  public  trust,"  and  "I  would  rather  be  right  than  Presi 
dent"? 

Eli  Perkins.  

Is  the  Lakeside  Improvement  Company  making  any 
thing  out  of  their  town  tract  on  the  lake? 

Inquisitive. 
Yes,  lots. 


POEMS 

[  This  and  the  other  poems  that  follow  have  been  found  in  files 
of  The  Rolling  Stone,  in  the  Houston  Post's  Postscripts  and  in 
manuscript.  There  are  many  others,  but  these  few  have  been  se 
lected  rather  arbitrarily,  to  round  out  this  collection.] 

THE   PEWEE 

In  the  hush  of  the  drowsy  afternoon, 

When  the  very  wind  on  the  breast  of  June 

Lies  settled,  and  hot  white  tracery 

Of  the  shattered  sunlight  filters  free 

Through  the  unstinted  leaves  to  the  pied  cool  sward; 

On  a  dead  tree  branch  sings  the  saddest  bard 

Of  the  birds  that  be; 

'Tis  the  lone  Pewee. 
It's  note  is  a  sob,  and  it's  note  is  pitched 
In  a  single  key,  like  a  soul  bewitched 

To  a  mournful  minstrelsy. 

"Pewee,  Pewee,"  doth  it  ever  cry; 
A  sad,  sweet  minor  threnody 
That  threads  the  aisles  of  the  dim  hot  grove 
Like  a  tale  of  a  wrong  or  a  vanished  love; 
And  the  fancy  comes  that  the  wee  dun  bird 
Perchance  was  a  maid,  and  her  heart  was  stirred 

234 


The  Pewee  235 

By  some  lover's  rhyme 

In  a  golden  time, 

And  broke  when  the  world  turned  false  and  cold; 
And  her  dreams  grew  dark  and  her  faith  grew  cold 

In  some  fairy  far-off  clime. 

And  her  soul  crept  into  the  Pewee's  breast; 
And  forever  she  cries  with  a  strange  unrest 
For  something  lost,  in  the  afternoon; 
For  something  missed  from  the  lavish  June; 
For  the  heart  that  died  in  the  long  ago; 
For  the  livelong  pain  that  pierceth  so; 

Thus  the  Pewee  cries, 

While  the  evening  lies 
Steeped  in  the  languorous  still  sunshine, 
Rapt,  to  the  leaf  and  the  bough  and  the  vine 

Of  some  hopeless  paradise. 


NOTHING  TO  SAY 

"You  can  tell  your  paper,"  the  great  man  said, 

"I  refused  an  interview. 
I  have  nothing  to  say  on  the  question,  sir; 

Nothing  to  say  to  you." 

And  then  he  talked  till  the  sun  went  down 

And  the  chickens  went  to  roost; 
And  he  seized  the  collar  of  the  poor  young  man, 

And  never  his  hold  he  loosed. 

And  the  sun  went  down  and  the  moon  came  up, 

And  he  talked  till  the  dawn  of  day; 
Though  he  said,  "On  this  subject  mentioned  by  you, 

I  have  nothing  whatever  to  say." 

And  down  the  reporter  dropped  to  sleep 

And  flat  on  the  floor  he  lay; 
And  the  last  he  heard  was  the  great  man's  words, 

"I  have  nothing  at  all  to  say." 


23<5 


THE  MURDERER 

"I  push  my  boat  among  the  reeds; 

I  sit  and  stare  about; 
Queer  slimy  things  crawl  through  the  weeds, 

Put  to  a  sullen  rout. 
I  paddle  under  cypress  trees; 

All  fearfully  I  peer 
Through  oozy  channels  when  the  breeze 

Comes  rustling  at  my  ear. 

"The  long  moss  hangs  perpetually; 

Gray  scalps  of  buried  years; 
Blue  crabs  steal  out  and  stare  at  me, 

And  seem  to  gauge  my  fears; 
I  start  to  hear  the  eel  swim  by; 

I  shudder  when  the  crane 
Strikes  at  his  prey;  I  turn  to  fly 

At  drops  of  sudden  rain. 

"In  every  little  cry  of  bird 
I  hear  a  tracking  shout; 
From  every  sodden  leaf  that's  stirred 

I  see  a  face  frown  out; 
My  soul  shakes  when  the  water  rat 

Cowed  by  the  blue  snake  flies; 
Black  knots  from  tree  holes  glimmer  at 
Me  with  accusive  eyes. 
237 


238  Rolling  Stones 

"Through  all  the  murky  silence  rings 

A  cry  not  born  of  earth; 
An  endless,  deep,  unechoing  thing 

That  owns  not  human  birth. 
I  see  no  colors  in  the  sky 

Save  red,  as  blood  is  red; 
I  pray  to  God  to  still  that  cry 

From  pallid  lips  and  dead. 

"One  spot  in  all  that  stagnant  waste 

I  shun  as  moles  shun  light, 
And  turn  my  prow  to  make  all  haste 

To  fly  before  the  night. 
A  poisonous  mound  hid  from  the  sun, 

Where  crabs  hold  revelry; 
Where  eels  and  fishes  feed  upon 

The  Thing  that  once  was  He. 

"At  night  I  steal  along  the  shore; 

Within  my  hut  I  creep; 
But  awful  stars  blink  through  the  door, 

To  hold  me  from  my  sleep. 
The  river  gurgles  like  his  throat, 

In  little  choking  coves, 
And  loudly  dins  that  phantom  note 

From  out  the  awful  groves. 

"I  shout  with  laughter  through  the  night; 

I  rage  in  greatest  glee; 
My  fears  all  vanish  with  the  light 
Oh!  splendid  nights  they  be! 


The  Murderer 

I  sec  her  weep;  she  calls  his  name; 

He  answers  not,  nor  will; 
My  soul  with  joy  is  all  aflame; 

I  laugh,  and  laugh,  and  thrill. 

"I  count  her  teardrops  as  they  fall; 

I  flout  my  daytime  fears; 
I  mumble  thanks  to  (uul  for  all 

These  gibes  and  happy  jeers. 
But,  when  the  warning  dawn  awakes, 

Begins  my  wandering; 
With  stealthy  strokes  through  tangled  brakes, 


A  wasted,  frightened  thing." 


SOME  POSTSCRIPTS 

TWO  PORTRAITS 

Wild  hair  flying,  in  a  matted  maze, 
Hand  firm  as  iron,  eyes  all  ablaze; 
Bystanders  timidly,  breathlessly  gaze, 
As  o'er  the  keno  board  boldly  he  plays. 
—  That's  Texas  Bill. 

Wild  hair  flying,  in  a  matted  maze, 
Hand  firm  as  iron,  eyes  all  ablaze; 
Bystanders  timidly,  breathlessly  gaze, 
As  o'er  the  keyboard  boldly  he  plays. 
—That's  Paderewski. 

A  CONTRIBUTION 

There  came  unto  ye  editor 

A  poet,  pale  and  wan, 
And  at  the  table  sate  him  down, 

A  roll  within  his  hand. 

Ye  editor  accepted  it, 

And  thanked  his  lucky  fates; 

Ye  poet  had  to  yield  it  up 
To  a  king  full  on  eights. 
240 


Some  Postscripts  241 

THE  OLD   FARM 

Just  now  when  the  whitening  blossoms  flare 
On  the  apple  trees  and  the  growing  grass 
Creeps  forth,  and  a  balm  is  in  the  air; 
With  my  lighted  pipe  and  well-filled  glass 
Of  the  old  farm  I  am  dreaming, 
And  softly  smiling,  seeming 
To  see  the  bright  sun  beaming 
Upon  the  old  home  farm. 

And  when  I  think  how  we  milked  the  cows, 

And  hauled  the  hay  from  the  meadows  low; 
And  walked  the  furrows  behind  the  plows, 
And  chopped  the  cotton  to  make  it  grow 
I'd  much  rather  be  here  dreaming 
And  smiling,  only  seeming 
To  see  the  hot  sun  gleaming 
Upon  the  old  home  farm. 

VANITY 

A  Poet  sang  so  wondrous  sweet 

That  toiling  thousands  paused  and  listened  long; 
So  lofty,  strong  and  noble  tfere  his  themes, 

It  seemed  that  strength  supernal  swayed  his  song. 

He,  god-like,  chided  poor,  weak,  weeping  man, 
And  bade  him  dry  his  foolish,  shameful  tears; 

Taught  that  each  soul  on  its  proud  self  should  lean, 
And  from  that  rampart  scorn  all  earth-born  fears. 


Rolling  Stones 

The  Poet  grovelled  on  a  fresh  heaped  mound, 
Raised  o'er  the  clay  of  one  he'd  fondly  loved; 

And  cursed  the  world,  and  drenched  the  sod  with  tears; 
And  all  the  flimsy  mockery  of  his  precepts  proved. 

THE    LULLABY   BOY 

The  lullaby  boy  to  the  same  old  tune 

Who  abandons  his  drum  and  toys 
For  the  purpose  of  dying  in  early  June 

Is  the  kind  the  public  enjoys. 
But,  just  for  a  change,  please  sing  us  a  song, 

Of  the  sore-toed  boy  that's  fly, 
And  freckled  and  mean,  and  ugly,  and  bad, 

And  positively  will  not  die. 

CHANSON    DE    BOHEME 

Lives  of  great  men  all  remind  us 

Rose  is  red  and  violet's  blue; 
Johnny's  got  his  gun  behind  us 

'Cause  the  lamb  loved  Mary  too. 

-  Robert  Burns'  "Hocht  Time  in  the  aud  Town.  "• 
I'd  rather  write  this,  as  bad  as  it  is 

Than  be  Will  Shakespeare's  shade; 
I'd  rather  be  known  as  an  F.  F.  V. 

Than  in  Mount  Vernon  laid. 
I'd  rather  count  ties  from  Denver  to  Troy 

Than  to  head  Booth's  old  programme; 
I'd  rather  be  special  for  the  New  York  World 

Than  to  lie  with  Abraham. 


Some  Postcripts  243 

For  there's  stuff  in  the  can,  there's  Dolly  and  Fan, 

And  a  hundred  things  to  choose; 
There's  a  kiss  in  the  ring,  and  every  old  thing 

That  a  real  live  man  can  use. 

I'd  rather  fight  flies  in  a  boarding  house 

Than  fill  Napoleon's  grave, 
And  snuggle  up  warm  in  my  three  slat  bed 

Than  be  Andre  the  brave. 
I'd  rather  distribute  a  coat  of  red 

On  the  town  with  a  wad  of  dough 
Just  now,  than  to  have  my  cognomen 

Spelled  "Michael  Angelo." 

For  a  small  live  man,  if  he's  prompt  on  hand 

When  the  good  things  pass  around, 
While  the  world's  on  tap  has  a  better  snap 

Than  a  big  man  under  ground. 

HARD    TO    FORGET 

I'm  thinking  to-night,  of  the  old  farm,  Ned, 

And  my  heart  is  heavy  and  sad 
As  I  think  of  the  days  that  by  have  fled 

Since  I  was  a  little  lad. 
There  rises  before  me  each  spot  I  know 

Of  the  old  home  in  the  dell, 
The  fields,  and  woods,  and  meadows  below 

That  memory  holds  so  well. 


244  Rolling  Stones 

The  city  is  pleasant  and  lively,  Ned, 

But  what  to  us  is  its  charm? 
To-night  all  my  thoughts  are  fixed,  instead, 

On  our  childhood's  old  home  farm. 
I  know  you  are  thinking  the  same,  dear  Ned, 

With  your  head  bowed  on  your  arm, 
For  to-morrow  at  four  we'll  be  jerked  out  of  bed 

To  plow  on  that  darned  old  farm. 


DROP  A  TEAR  IN  THIS  SLOT 

He  who,  when  torrid  Summer's  sickly  glare 

Beat  down  upon  the  city's  parched  walls, 

Sat  him  within  a  room  scarce  8  by  9, 

And,  with  tongue  hanging  out  and  panting  breath, 

Perspiring,  pierced  by  pangs  of  prickly  heat, 

Wrote  variations  of  the  seaside  joke 

We  all  do  know  and  always  loved  so  well, 

And  of  cool  breezes  and  sweet  girls  that  lay 

In  shady  nooks,  and  pleasant  windy  coves 

Anon 

Will  in  that  self-same  room,  with  tattered  quilt 

Wrapped  round  him,  and  blue  stiffening  hands, 

All  shivering,  fireless,  pinched  by  winter's  blasts, 

Will  hale  us  forth  upon  the  rounds  once  more, 

So  that  we  may  expect  it  not  in  vain, 

The  joke  of  how  with  curses  deep  and  coarse 

Papa  puts  up  the  pipe  of  parlor  stove. 

So  ye 

Who  greet  with  tears  this  olden  favorite, 

Drop  one  for  him  who,  though  he  strives  to  please, 

Must  write  about  the  things  he  never  sees 


245 


TAMALES 

This  is  the  Mexican 
Don  Jose  Calderon 
One  of  God's  countrymen, 
Land  of  the  buzzard. 
Cheap  silver  dollar,  and 
Cacti  and  murderers. 
Why  has  he  left  his  land 
Land  of  the  lazy  man, 
Land  of  the  pulque 
Land  of  the  bull  fight, 
Fleas  and  revolution. 

This  is  the  reason, 
Hark  to  the  wherefore; 
Listen  and  tremble. 
One  of  his  ancestors, 
Ancient  and  garlicky, 
Probably  grandfather, 
Died  with  his  boots  on. 
Killed  by  the  Texans, 
Texans  with  big  guns, 
At  San  Jacinto. 
Died  without  benefit 
Of  priest  or  clergy; 
346 


Tamales  247 


Died  full  of  minie  balls, 
Mescal  and  pepper. 

Don  Jose  Calderon 
Heard  of  the  tragedy. 
Heard  of  it,  thought  of  it, 
Vowed  a  deep  vengeance; 
Vowed  retribution 
On  the  Americans, 
Murderous  gringos, 
Especially  Texans. 
"Valga  me  Dios!  que 
Ladrones,  diablos, 
Matadores,  mentidores, 
Caraccos  y  perros, 
Voy  a  matarles, 
Con  solos  mis  manos, 
Toditassinfalta." 
Thus  swore  the  Hidalgo 
Don  Jose  Calderon. 

He  hied  him  to  Austin. 
Bought  him  a  basket, 
A  barrel  of  pepper, 
And  another  of  garlic; 
Also  a  rope  he  bought. 
That  was  his  stock  in  trade; 
Nothing  else  had  he. 
Nor  was  he  rated  in 


248  Rolling  Stones 

Dun  or  in  Bradstreet, 
Though  he  meant  business, 
Don  Jose  Calderon, 
Champion  of  Mexico, 
Don  Jose  Calderon, 
Seeker  of  vengeance. 

With  his  stout  lariat, 

Then  he  caught  swiftly 

Tomcats  and  puppy  dogs, 

Caught  them  and  cooked  them, 

Don  Jose  Calderon, 

Vower  of  vengeance. 

Now  on  the  sidewalk 

Sits  the  avenger 

Selling  Tamales  to 

Innocent  purchasers. 

Dire  is  thy  vengeance, 

Oh,  Jose  Calderon, 

Pitiless  Nemesis 

Fearful  Redresser 

Of  the  wrongs  done  to  thy 

Sainted  grandfather. 

Now  the  doomed  Texans, 
Rashly  hilarious, 
Buy  of  the  deadly  wares, 
Buy  and  devour. 
Rounders  at  midnight, 


&cut 


tf&^t. 


2?* 

'    * 


J) 


of  ''wli  dcujA 

L  qo~o-d-   J^uujp 


A  letter   to   his   daughter  Margaret. 


H 


W 


CL, 


H 

W 


jfir? 


o        Sf  «  .^ 

•2  >•  s  J  i 

£  "a.  a   2    S 


ilsil 


wi 

>-       H 
•3        O 


S    S  f 

MO  O 

J2    ex  ^^ 
-    o 

«e    o 


o 
o  "" 

•g  " 

O    _c 

M 


Zeke  sells  the  "  Basket  of  Toads  "  to  the  "  Bloated 
Bondholder."     (Herlow's  Hotel) 

An  early  illustration  by  0.  Henry,  done  in  pencil  on  ordinary  pasteboard 


Tamaks  249 


Citizens  solid, 
Bankers  and  newsboys, 
Bootblacks  and  preachers, 
Rashly  importunate, 
Courting  destruction. 
Buy  and  devour. 
Beautiful  maidens 
Buy  and  devour, 
Gentle  society  youths 
Buy  and  devour. 

Buy  and  devour 
This  thing  called  Tamale; 
Made  of  rat  terrier, 
Spitz  dog  and  poodle. 
Maltese  cat,  boarding  house 
Steak  and  red  pepper. 
Garlic  and  tallow, 
Corn  meal  and  shucks. 
Buy  without  shame 
Sit  on  store  steps  and  eat, 
Stand  on  the  street  and  eat, 
Ride  on  the  cars  and  eat, 
Strewing  the  shucks  around 
Over  creation. 

Dire  is  thy  vengeance. 

Don  Jose  Calderon. 

For  the  slight  thing  we  did 


250  Rolling  Stones 

Killing  thy  grandfather. 
What  boots  it  if  we  killed 
Only  one  greaser, 
Don  Jose  Calderon? 
This  is  your  deep  revenge, 
You  have  greased  all  of  us, 
Greased  a  whole  nation 
With  your  Tamales, 
Don  Jose  Calderon. 
Santos  Esperition, 
Vincente  Camillo, 
Quitana  de  Bios, 
De  Rosa  y  Ribera, 


LETTERS 

[Letter  to  Mr.  Gilman  Hall,  O.  Henry's  friend  and  Associate  Editor 
of  Everybody's  Magazine.} 

"  the  Gallic  "- 

Excavation  Road  —  Sundy. 

my  dear  mr.  hall: 

in  your  October  E'bodys'  i  read  a  story  in  which  i 
noticed  some  sentences  as  follows: 

"Day  in,  day  out,  day  in,  day  out,  day  in,  day  out, 
day  in,  day  out,  day  in,  day  out,  it  had  rained,  rained,  and 
rained  and  rained  &  rained  &  rained  &  rained  &  rained 
till  the  mountains  loomed  like  a  chunk  of  rooined 
velvet." 

And  the  other  one  was:  "i  don't  keer  whether  you  are 
any  good  or  not,"  she  cried.  "You're  alive!  You're 
alive!  You 're  alive!  You're  alive!  You're  alive!  You're 
alive!  You're  alive!  You're  alive!  You're  alive! 
You're  alive!  You're  alive!  You're  alive!  You're  alive! 
You're  alive!  You're  alive!  You're  alive!" 

I  thought  she  would  never  stop  saying  it,  on  and  on 
and  on  and  on  and  on  and  on  and  on  and  on  and  on  and  on 
and  on  and  on.  "You're  alive!  You're  alive!  You're 
alive!  You're  alive!  You're  alive!  You're  alive! 
You're  ALIVE! 

"You're  alive!     You're    alive!     You're  alive!     You're 

251 


252  Rolling  Stones 

alive!    You're  alive!    You're  alive!    You're  alive!  You're 
ALIVE! 
"YOU'RE  ALIVE!" 

Say,  bill;  do  you  get  this  at  a  rate,  or  does  every  word 
go? 

i  want  to  know,  because  if  the  latter  is  right  i'm  going 
to  interduce  in  my  compositions  some  histerical  person 
ages  that  will  loom  up  large  as  repeeters  when  the  words 
are  counted  up  at  the  polls. 

Yours  truly 
O.  henry 

28  West  26th  St., 

West  of  broadway 
Mr.  hall, 
part  editor 
of  everybody's. 

KYNTOEKNEEYOUGH  RANCH,  November  31,  1883. 

[Letter  to  Mrs.  Hall,  a  friend  back  in  North  Carolina.  This  is  one  of 
the  earliest  letters  found.] 

Dear  Mrs.  Hall: 

As  I  have  not  heard  from  you  since  the  shout  you  gave 
when  you  set  out  from  the  station  on  your  way  home 
I  guess  you  have  not  received  some  seven  or  eight 
letters  from  me,  and  hence  your  silence.  The  mails  are  so 
unreliable  that  they  may  all  have  been  lost.  If  you  don't 
get  this  you  had  better  send  to  Washington  and  get  them 
to  look  over  the  dead  letter  office  for  the  others.  I  have 


Letters  253 

nothing  to  tell  you  of  any  interest,  except  that  we  all 
nearly  froze  to  death  last  night,  thermometer  away  below 
32  degrees  in  the  shade  all  night. 

You  ought  by  all  means  to  come  back  to  Texas  this 
winter;  you  would  love  it  more  and  more;  that  same  little 
breeze  that  you  looked  for  so  anxiously  last  summer  is  with 
us  now,  as  cold  as  Callum  Bros,  suppose  their  soda  water 
to  be. 

My  sheep  are  doing  finely;  they  never  were  in  better 
condition.  They  give  me  very  little  trouble,  for  I  have 
never  been  able  to  see  one  of  them  yet.  I  will  proceed  to 
give  you  all  the  news  about  this  ranch.  Dick  has  got  his 
new  house  well  under  way,  the  pet  lamb  is  doing  finely, 
and  I  take  the  cake  for  cooking  mutton  steak  and  fine 
gravy.  The  chickens  are  doing  mighty  well,  the  garden 
produces  magnificent  prickly  pears  and  grass;  onions  are 
worth  two  for  five  cents,  and  Mr.  Haynes  has  shot  a 
Mexican. 

Please  send  by  express  to  this  ranch  75  cooks  and  200 
washwomen,  blind  or  wooden  legged  ones  preferred.  The 
climate  has  a  tendency  to  make  them  walk  off  every  two 
or  three  days,  which  must  be  overcome.  Ed  Brockman 
has  quit  the  store  and  I  think  is  going  to  work  for  Lee 
among  the  cows.  Wears  a  red  sash  and  swears  so  fluently 
that  he  has  been  mistaken  often  for  a  member  of  the 
Texas  Legislature. 

If  you  see  Dr.  Beall  bow  to  him  for  me,  politely  but 
distantly;  he  refuses  to  waste  a  line  upon  me.  I  suppose 
he  is  too  much  engaged  in  courting  to  write  any  letters. 


254  Rolling  Stones 

Give  Dr.  Hall  my  profoundest  regards.     I  think  about 
him  invariably  whenever  he  is  occupying  my  thoughts. 

Influenced  by  the  contents  of  the  Bugle,  there  is  an 
impression  general  at  this  ranch  that  you  are  president, 
secretary,  and  committee,  &c.,  of  the  various  associations 
of  fruit  fairs,  sewing  societies,  church  fairs,  Presbytery, 
general  assembly,  conference,  medical  conventions,  and 
baby  shows  that  go  to  make  up  the  glory  and  renown  of 
North  Carolina  in  general,  and  while  I  heartily  congratu 
late  the  aforesaid  institutions  on  their  having  such  a 
zealous  and  efficient  officer,  I  tremble  lest  their  require 
ments  leave  you  not  time  to  favor  me  with  a  letter  in 
reply  to  this,  and  assure  you  that  if  you  would  so  honor 
me  I  would  highly  appreciate  the  effort.  I  would  rather 
have  a  good  long  letter  from  you  than  many  Bugles.  In 
your  letter  be  certain  to  refer  as  much  as  possible  to  the 
advantages  of  civilized  life  over  the  barbarous;  you  might 
mention  the  theatres  you  see  there,  the  nice  things  you 
eat,  warm  fires,  niggers  to  cook  and  bring  in  wood;  a 
special  reference  to  nice  beef-steak  would  be  advisable. 
You  know  our  being  reminded  of  these  luxuries  makes  us 
contented  and  happy.  When  we  hear  of  you  people  at 
home  eating  turkeys  and  mince  pies  and  getting  drunk 
Christmas  and  having  a  fine  time  generally  we  become 
more  and  more  reconciled  to  this  country  and  would  not 
leave  it  for  anything. 

I  must  close  now  as  I  must  go  and  dress  for  the  opera. 
Write  soon.  Yours  very  truly, 

W.  S.  PORTER. 


Letters  255 

TO   DR.    W.    P.   BEALL 

[Dr.  Beall,  of  Greensboro,  N.  C.,  was  one  of  young  Porter's  dearest 
friends.  Between  them  there  was  an  almost  regular  correspondence 
during  Porter's  first  years  in  Texas. 

LA  SALLE  COUNTY,  Texas,  December  8,  1883. 

Dear  Doctor:  I  send  you  a  play  —  a  regular  high  art 
full  orchestra,  gilt-edged  drama.  I  send  it  to  you  because 
of  old  acquaintance  and  as  a  revival  of  old  associations. 
Was  I  not  ever  ready  in  times  gone  by  to  generously  fur 
nish  a  spatula  and  other  assistance  when  you  did  buy  the 
succulent  watermelon?  And  was  it  not  by  my  connivance 
tmd  help  that  you  did  oft  from  the  gentle  Oscar  Mayo 
sskates  entice?  But  I  digress.  I  think  that  I  have  so 
concealed  the  identity  of  the  characters  introduced  that 
no  one  will  be  able  to  place  them,  as  they  all  appear  under 
fictitious  names,  although  I  admit  that  many  of  the  inci 
dents  and  scenes  were  suggested  by  actual  experiences  of 
the  author  in  your  city. 

You  will,  of  course,  introduce  the  play  upon  the  stage  if 
proper  arrangements  can  be  made.  I  have  not  yet  had 
an  opportunity  of  ascertaining  whether  Edwin  Booth, 
John  McCullough  or  Henry  Irving  can  be  secured. 
However,  I  will  leave  all  such  matters  to  your  judg 
ment  and  taste.  Some  few  suggestions  I  will  make 
with  regard  to  the  mounting  of  the  piece  which  may  be 
of  value  to  you.  Discrimination  will  be  necessary  in 
selecting  a  fit  person  to  represent  the  character  of  Bill 
Slax,  the  tramp.  The  part  is  that  of  a  youth  of  great 


256  Rolling  Stones 

beauty  and  noble  manners,  temporarily  under  a  cloud, 
and  is  generally  rather  difficult  to  fill  properly.  The  other 
minor  characters,  such  as  damfools,  citizens,  police, 
customers,  countrymen,  &c.,  can  be  very  easily  supplied, 
especially  the  first. 

Let  it  be  announced  in  the  Patriot  for  several  days  that 
in  front  of  Benbow  Hall,  at  a  certain  hour,  a  man  will  walk 
a  tight  rope  seventy  feet  from  the  ground  who  has  never 
made  the  attempt  before;  that  the  exhibition  will  be 
FREE,  and  that  the  odds  are  20  to  1  tliat  the  man  will  be 
killed.  A  large  crowd  will  gather.  Then  let  the  Guilford 
Grays  charge  one  side,  the  Reidsville  Light  Infantry  the 
other,  with  fixed  bayonets,  and  a  man  with  a  hat  com 
mence  taking  up  a  collection  in  the  rear.  By  this  means 
they  can  be  readily  driven  into  the  hall  and  the  door 
locked. 

I  have  studied  a  long  time  about  devising  a  plan  for 
obtaining  pay  from  the  audience  and  have  finally  struck 
upon  the  only  feasible  one  I  think. 

After  the  performance  let  some  one  come  out  on  the 
stage  and  announce  that  James  Forbis  will  speak  two 
hours.  The  result,  easily  explainable  by  philosophical 
and  psychological  reasons,  will  be  as  follows:  The  minds  of 
the  audience,  elated  and  inspired  by  the  hope  of  immediate 
departure  when  confronted  by  such  a  terror-inspiring  and 
dismal  prospect,  will  collapse  with  the  fearful  reaction 
which  will  take  place,  and  for  a  space  of  time  they  will 
remain  in  a  kind  of  comatose,  farewell- vain-world  con 
dition.  Now,  as  this  is  the  time  when  the  interest  of  the 


Letters  257 

evening  is  at  its  highest  pitch,  let  the  melodious  strains  of 
the  orchestra  steal  forth  as  a  committee  appointed  by 
the  managers  of  lawyers,  druggists,  doctors,  and  revenue 
officers,  go  around  and  relieve  the  audience  of  the  price  of 
admission  for  each  one.  Where  one  person  has  no  money 
let  it  be  made  up  from  another,  but  on  no  account  let  the 
whole  sum  taken  be  more  than  the  just  amount  at  usual 
rates. 

As  I  said  before,  the  characters  in  the  play  are  purely 
imaginary,  and  therefore  not  to  be  confounded  with  real 
persons.  But  lest  any  one,  feeling  some  of  the  idiosyn 
crasies  and  characteristics  apply  too  forcibly  to  his  own 
high  moral  and  irreproachable  self,  should  allow  his  war 
like  and  combative  spirits  to  arise,  you  might  as  you  go, 
kind  of  casually  like,  produce  the  impression  that  I  rarely 
miss  my  aim  with  a  Colt's  forty-five,  but  if  that  does  not 
have  the  effect  of  quieting  the  splenetic  individual,  and  he 
still  thirsts  for  Bill  Slax's  gore,  just  inform  him  that  if  he 
comes  out  here  he  can't  get  any  whiskey  within  two  days' 
journey  of  my  present  abode,  and  water  will  have  to  be  his 
only  beverage  while  on  the  warpath.  This,  I  am  sure, 
will  avert  the  bloody  and  direful  conflict. 

Accept  my  lasting  regards  and  professions  of  respect. 

Ever  yours, 

BILL  SLAX 

TO  DR.  W.  P.  BEALL 

My  Dear  Doctor:  I  wish  you  a  happy,  &c.,  and  all  that 
sort  of  thing,  don't  you  know,  &c.,  &c.,  I  send  you  a  few 


258  Rolling  Stones 

little  productions  in  the  way  of  poetry,  &c.,  which,  of 
course,  were  struck  off  in  an  idle  moment.  Some  of  the 
pictures  are  not  good  likenesses,  and  so  I  have  not  labelled 
them,  which  you  may  do  as  fast  [as]  you  discover  whom 
they  represent,  as  some  of  them  resemble  others  more  than 
themselves,  but  the  poems  are  good  without  exception, 
and  will  compare  favorably  with  Baron  Alfred's  latest  on 
spring. 

I  have  just  come  from  a  hunt,  in  which  I  mortally 
wounded  a  wild  hog,  and  as  my  boots  are  full  of  thorns  I 
can't  write  any  longer  than  this  paper  will  contain,  for  it's 
all  I've  got,  because  I'm  too  tired  to  write  any  more  for 
the  reason  that  I  have  no  news  to  tell. 

I  see  by  the  Patriot  that  you  are  Superintendent  of 
Public  Health,  and  assure  you  that  all  such  upward  rise 
as  you  make  like  that  will  ever  be  witnessed  with  interest 
and  pleasure  by  me,  &c.,  &c.  Give  my  regards  to  Dr. 
and  Mrs.  Hall.  It  would  be  uncomplimentary  to  your 
powers  of  perception  as  well  as  superfluous  to  say  that  I 
will  now  close  and  remain,  yours  truly, 

W.  S.  PORTER. 

LETTER  TO  DR.   W.   P.   BEALL 

LA  SALLE  COUNTY,  Texas,  February  27,  1884. 
My  Dear  Doctor:  Your  appreciated  epistle  of  the  18th 
received.  I  was  very  glad  to  hear  from  you.  I  hope  to 
hear  again  if  such  irrelevant  correspondence  will  not  inter 
fere  with  your  duties  as  Public  Health  Eradicator,  which  I 
believe  is  the  office  you  hold  under  county  authority.  I 


Letters  259 

supposed  the  very  dramatic  Shakespearian  comedy  to  be 
the  last,  as  I  heard  nothing  from  you  previous  before  your 
letter,  and  was  about  to  write  another  of  a  more  exciting 
character,  introducing  several  bloody  single  combats,  a 
dynamite  explosion,  a  ladies'  oyster  supper  for  charitable 
purposes,  &c.,  also  comprising  some  mysterious  sub  rosa 
transactions  known  only  to  myself  and  a  select  few,  new 
songs  and  dances,  and  the  Greensboro  Poker  Club.  Hav 
ing  picked  up  a  few  points  myself  relative  to  this  latter 
amusement,  I  feel  competent  to  give  a  lucid,  glittering 
portrait  of  the  scenes  presented  under  its  auspices.  But 
if  the  former  drama  has  reached  you  safely,  I  will  refrain 
from  burdening  you  any  more  with  the  labors  of  general 
stage  manager,  &c. 

If  long  hair,  part  of  a  sombrero,  Mexican  spurs,  &c., 
would  make  a  fellow  famous,  I  already  occupy  a  topmost 
niche  in  the  Temple  Frame.  If  my  wild,  untamed  aspect 
had  not  been  counteracted  by  my  wTell-known  benevolent 
and  amiable  expression  of  countenance,  I  would  have  been 
arrested  long  ago  by  the  Rangers  on  general  suspicions  of 
murder  and  horse  stealing.  In  fact,  I  owe  all  my  present 
means  of  lugubrious  living  to  my  desperate  and  blood 
thirsty  appearance,  combined  with  the  confident  and  easy 
way  in  which  I  tackle  a  Winchester  rifle.  There  is  a 
gentleman  who  lives  about  fifteen  miles  from  the  ranch,  who 
for  amusement  and  recreation,  and  not  altogether  with 
out  an  eye  to  the  profit,  keeps  a  general  merchandise  store. 
Thi?  gent,  for  the  first  few  months  has  been  trying  very 
earnestly  to  sell  me  a  little  paper,  which  I  would  like  much 


260  Rolling  Stones 

to  have,  but  am  not  anxious  to  purchase.  Said  paper  is 
my  account,  receipted.  Occasionally  he  is  absent,  and 
the  welcome  news  coming  to  my  ear,  I  mount  my  fiery 
boss  and  gallop  wildly  up  to  the  store,  enter  with  some 
thing  of  the  sang  froid,  grace,  abandon  and  recherche 
nonchalance  with  which  Charles  Yates  ushers  ladies  and 
gentlemen  to  their  seats  in  the  opera-house,  and,  nervously 
fingering  my  butcher  knife,  fiercely  demand  goods  and 
chattels  of  the  clerk.  This  plan  always  succeeds.  This 
is  by  way  of  explanation  of  this  vast  and  unnecessary 
stationery  of  which  this  letter  is  composed.  I  am  always 
in  too  big  a  hurry  to  demur  at  kind  and  quality,  but  when 
I  get  to  town  I  will  write  you  on  small  gilt-edged  paper 
that  would  suit  even  the  fastidious  and  discriminating 
taste  of  a  Logan. 

When  I  get  to  the  city,  which  will  be  shortly,  I  will  send 
you  some  account  of  this  country  and  its  inmates. 

You  are  right,  I  have  almost  forgotten  what  a  regular 
old,  gum-chewing,  ice-cream  destroying,  opera  ticket 
vortex,  ivory-clawing  girl  looks  like.  Last  summer  a  very 
fair  specimen  of  this  kind  ranged  over  about  Fort  Snell, 
and  I  used  to  ride  over  twice  a  week  on  mail  days  and 
chew  the  end  of  my  riding  whip  while  she  "Stood  on  the 
Bridge"  and  "Gathered  up  Shells  on  the  Sea  Shore"  and 
wore  the  "  Golden  Slippers. "  But  she  has  vamoosed,  and 
my  ideas  on  the  subject  are  again  growing  dim. 

If  you  see  anybody  about  to  start  to  Texas  to  live, 
especially  to  this  part,  if  you  will  take  your  scalpyouler 
and  sever  the  jugular  vein,  cut  the  brachiopod  artery  and 


Letters  261 

hamstring  him,  after  he  knows  what  you  have  done  for 
him  he  will  rise  and  call  you  blessed.  This  country  is  a 
silent  but  eloquent  refutation  of  Bob  Ingersoll's  theory; 
a  man  here  gets  prematurely  insane,  melancholy  and 
unreliable  and  finally  dies  of  lead  poisoning,  in  his  boots, 
while  in  a  good  old  land  like  Greensboro  a  man  can  die,  as 
they  do  every  day,  with  all  the  benefits  of  the  clergy. 

W.  S.  PORTER. 

AUSTIN,  Texas,  April  21,  1885. 

Dear  Dave:  I  take  my  pen  in  hand  to  let  you  know  that 
I  am  well,  and  hope  these  few  lines  will  find  you  as  well 
as  can  be  expected. 

I  carried  out  your  parting  injunction  of  a  floral  nature 
with  all  the  solemnity  and  sacredness  that  I  would  have 
bestowed  upon  a  dying  man's  last  request.  Promptly  at 
half -past  three  I  repaired  to  the  robbers'  den,  commonly 
known  as  Radams  Horticultural  and  Vegetable  Empo 
rium,  and  secured  the  high-priced  offerings,  according  to 
promise.  I  asked  if  the  bouquets  were  ready,  and  the 
polite  but  piratical  gentleman  in  charge  pointed  proudly 
to  two  objects  on  the  counter  reposing  in  a  couple  of  vases, 
and  said  they  were. 

I  then  told  him  I  feared  there  was  some  mistake,  as  no 
buttonhole  bouquets  had  been  ordered,  but  he  insisted 
on  his  former  declaration,  and  so  I  brought  them  away  and 
sent  them  to  their  respective  destinations. 

I  thought  it  a  pity  to  spoil  a  good  deck  of  cards  by  taking 
out  only  one,  so  I  bundled  up  the  whole  deck,  and  inserted 


Rolling  Stones 

them  in  the  bouquet,  but  finally  concluded  it  would  not 
be  right  to  violet  (JOKE)  my  promise  and  I  rose  (JOKE) 
superior  to  such  a  mean  trick  and  sent  only  one  as 
directed. 

I  have  a  holiday  to-day,  as  it  is  San  Jacinto  day.  Ther 
mopylae  had  its  messenger  of  defeat,  but  the  Alamo  had 
none.  Mr.  President  and  fellow  citizens,  those  glorious 
heroes  who  fell  for  their  country  on  the  bloody  field  of 
San  Jacinto,  etc. 

There  is  a  bazaar  to-night  in  the  representatives'  hall. 
You  people  out  in  Colorado  don't  know  anything.  A 
bazaar  is  cedar  and  tacks  and  girls  and  raw-cake  and  step- 
ladders  and  Austin  Grays  and  a  bass  solo  by  Bill  Stacy, 
and  net  profits  $2.65. 

Albert  has  got  his  new  uniform  and  Alf  Menille  is  in 
town,  and  the  store  needs  the  "fine  Italian  hand"  of  the 
bookkeeper  very  much,  besides  some  of  his  plain  Anglo- 
Saxon  conversation. 

Was  interviewed  yesterday  by  Gen'l  Smith,  Clay's 
father.  He  wants  Jim  S.  and  me  to  represent  a  manu 
factory  in  Jeff.  City :  Convict  labor.  Says  parties  in  Gal- 
veston  and  Houston  are  making  good  thing  of  it.  Have 
taken  him  up.  Hope  to  be  at  work  soon.  Glad,  by  jingo ! 
Shake.  What '11  you  have?  Claret  and  sugar?  Better 
come  home.  Colorado  no  good. 

Strange  thing  happened  in  Episcopal  Church  Sunday. 
Big  crowd.  Choir  had  sung  jolly  tune  and  preacher  come 
from  behind  scenes.  Everything  quiet.  Suddenly  fellow 
comes  down  aisle.  Late.  Everybody  looks.  Disap- 


Letters  263 

pointment.     It  is  a  stranger.     Jones  and  I  didn't  go. 
Service  proceeds. 

Jones  talks  about  his  mashes  and  Mirabeau  B.  Lamar, 
daily.  Yet  there  is  hope.  Cholera  infantum;  Walsh's 
crutch;  Harvey,  or  softening  of  the  brain  may  carry  him 
off  yet. 

Society  notes  are  few.  Bill  Stacy  is  undecided  where 
to  spend  the  summer.  Henry  Harrison  will  resort  at 
Wayland  and  Crisers.  Charlie  Cook  will  not  go  near  a 
watering  place  if  he  can  help  it. 

If  you  don't  strike  a  good  thing  out  West,  I  hope  we 
will  see  you  soon. 

Yours  as  ever, 

W.  S.  P. 

AUSTIN,  Texas,  April  28,  1885. 

Dear  Dave:  I  received  your  letter  in  answer  to  mine, 
which  you  never  got  till  sometime  after  you  had  written. 

I  snatch  a  few  moments  from  my  arduous  labors  to 
reply.  The  Colorado  has  been  on  the  biggest  boom  I  have 
seen  since  '39.  In  the  pyrotechnical  and  not  strictly  gram 
matical  language  of  the  Statesman  —  "  The  cruel,  devas 
tating  flood  swept,  on  a  dreadful  holocaust  of  swollen, 
turbid  waters,  surging  and  dashing  in  mad  fury  which  have 
never  been  equalled  in  human  history.  A  pitiable  sight 
was  seen  the  morning  after  the  flood.  Six  hundred  men, 
out  of  employment,  were  seen  standing  on  the  banks  of 
the  river,  gazing  at  the  rushing  stream,  laden  with  debris 
of  every  description.  A  wealthy  New  York  Banker,  who 


264  Rolling  Stones 

was  present,  noticing  the  forlorn  appearance  of  these  men, 
at  once  began  to  collect  a  subscription  for  them,  appealing 
in  eloquent  terms  for  help  for  these  poor  sufferers  by  the 
flood.  He  collected  one  dollar,  and  five  horn  buttons. 
The  dollar  he  had  given  himself.  He  learned  on  inquiry 
that  these  men  had  not  been  at  any  employment  in  six 
years,  and  all  they  had  lost  by  the  flood  was  a  few  fishing 
poles.  The  Banker  put  his  dollar  in  his  pocket  and  stepped 
up  to  the  Pearl  Saloon. 

As  you  will  see  by  this  morning's  paper,  there  is  to  be 
a  minstrel  show  next  Wednesday  for  benefit  of  Austin 
Grays. 

I  attended  the  rehearsal  last  night,  but  am  better  this 
morning,  and  the  doctor  thinks  I  will  pull  through  with 
careful  attention. 

The  jokes  are  mostly  mildewed,  rockribbed,  and  ancient 
as  the  sun.  I  can  give  you  no  better  idea  of  the  tout  en 
semble  and  sine  die  of  the  affair  than  to  state  that  Scuddy 
is  going  to  sing  a  song.  .  .  . 

Mrs.  Harrell  brought  a  lot  of  crystallized  fruits  from 
New  Orleans  for  you.  She  wants  to  know  if  she  shall 
send  them  around  on  Bois  d'arc  or  keep  them  'til  you 
return.  Answer. 

Write  to  your  father.  He  thinks  you  are  leaving  him 
out,  writing  to  everybody  else  first.  Write. 

We  have  the  boss  trick  here  now.  Have  sold  about  ten 
boxes  of  cigars  betting  on  it  in  the  store. 

Take  four  nickels,  and  solder  them  together  so  the  solder 
will  not  appear.  Then  cut  out  of  three  of  them  a  square 


Letters  265 

hole  like  this:  (Illustration.)  Take  about  twelve  other 
nickels,  and  on  top  of  them  you  lay  a  small  die  with  the 
six  up,  that  will  fit  easily  in  the  hole  without  being  noticed. 
You  lay  the  four  nickels  over  this,  and  all  presents  the 
appearance  of  a  stack  of  nickels.  You  do  all  this  privately 
so  everybody  will  suppose  it  is  nothing  but  a  stack  of  five- 
cent  pieces.  You  then  lay  another  small  die  on  top  of  the 
stack  with  the  ace  up.  You  have  a  small  tin  cup  shaped 
like  this  (Illustration)  made  for  the  purpose.  You  let 
everybody  see  the  ace,  and  then  say  you  propose  to  turn 
the  ace  into  a  six.  You  lay  the  tin  cup  carefully  over  the 
stack  this  way,  and  feel  around  in  your  pocket  for  a 
pencil  and  not  finding  one.  .  .  . 

(The  rest  of  this  letter  is  lost) 

AUSTIN,  Texas,  May  10, 1885. 

Dear  Dave:  I  received  your  two  letters  and  have  com 
menced  two  or  three  in  reply,  but  always  failed  to  say 
what  I  wanted  to,  and  destroyed  them  all.  I  heard  from 
Joe  that  you  would  probably  remain  in  Colorado.  I  hope 
you  will  succeed  in  making  a  good  thing  out  of  it,  if  you 
conclude  to  do  so,  but  would  like  to  see  you  back  again  in 
Austin.  If  there  is  anything  I  can  do  for  you  here,  let 
me  know. 

Town  is  fearfully  dull,  except  for  the  frequent  raids  of 
the  Servant  Girl  Annihilators,  who  make  things  lively 
during  the  dead  hours  of  the  night;  if  it  were  not  for  them, 
items  of  interest  would  be  very  scarce,  as  you  may  see 
by  the  Statesman. 


266  Rolling  Stones 

OUT  serenading  party  has  developed  new  and  alarming 
modes  of  torture  for  our  helpless  and  sleeping  victims- 
Last  Thursday  night  we  loaded  up  a  small  organ  on  a  hack 
and  with  our  other  usual  instruments  made  an  assault 
upon  the  quiet  air  of  midnight  that  made  the  atmosphere 
turn  pale. 

After  going  the  rounds  we  were  halted  on  the  Avenue  by 
Fritz  Hartkopf  and  ordered  into  his  salon.  We  went  in, 
carrying  the  organ,  etc.  A  large  crowd  of  bums  immedi 
ately  gathered,  prominent  a'mong  which,  were  to  be  seen 
Percy  James,  Theodore  Hillyer,  Randolph  Burmond, 
Charlie  Hicks,  and  after  partaking  freely  of  lemonade 
we  wended  our  way  down,  and  were  duly  halted  and 
treated  in  the  same  manner  by  other  hospitable  gen 
tlemen. 

We  were  called  in  at  several  places  while  wit 
and  champagne,  Rhein  Wine,  etc.,  flowed  in  a  most 
joyous  and  hilarious  manner.  It  was  one  of  the 
most  recherche  and  per  diem  affairs  ever  known  in 
the  city.  Nothing  occurred  to  mar  the  pleasure  of 
the  hour,  except  a  trifling  incident  that  might  be 
construed  as  malapropos  and  post-meridian  by  the 
hypercritical.  Mr.  Charles  Sims  on  attempting  to 
introduce  Mr.  Charles  Hicks  and  your  humble  servant 
to  young  ladies,  where  we  had  been  invited  inside, 
forgot  our  names  and  required  to  be  informed  on  the 
subject  before  proceeding. 

Yours 

W.  S.  P. 


Letters  £67 

AUSTIN,  Texas,  December  22,  1885. 

Dear  Dave:  Everything  wept  at  your  departure. 
Especially  the  clouds.  Last  night  the  clouds  had  a  silver 
lining,  three  dollars  and  a  half's  worth.  I  fulfilled  your 
engagement  in  grand,  tout  ensemble  style,  but  there  is  a 
sad  bon  jour  look  about  the  thirty-eight  cents  left  in  my 
vest  pocket  that  would  make  a  hired  man  weep.  All  day 
long  the  heavens  wept,  and  the  heavy,  sombre  clouds  went 
drifting  about  over  head,  and  the  north  wind  howled  in 
maniacal  derision,  and  the  hack  drivers  danced  on  the 
pavements  in  wild,  fierce  glee,  for  they  knew  too  well  what 
the  stormy  day  betokened.  The  hack  was  to  call  for  me 
at  eight.  At  five  minutes  to  eight  I  went  upstairs  and 
dressed  in  my  usual  bijou  and  operatic  style,  and  rolled 
•away  to  the  opera.  Emma  sang  finely.  I  applauded  at 
the  wrong  times,  and  praised  her  rendering  of  the  chro 
matic  scale  when  she  was  performing  on  "c"  flat  andante 
pianissimo,  but  otherwise  the  occasion  passed  off  without 
anything  to  mar  the  joyousness  of  the  hour.  Everybody 
was  there.  Isidor  Moses  and  John  Ireland,  and  Fritz 
Hartkopf  and  Prof.  Herzog  and  Bill  Stacy  and  all  the  bong 
ton  elight.  You  will  receive  a  draft  to-day  through  the 
First  National  Bank  of  Colorado  for  $3.65,  which  you  will 
please  honor. 

There  is  no  news,  or  there  are  no  news,  either  you 
like  to  tell.  Lavaca  Street  is  very  happy  and  quiet  and 
enjoys  life,  for  Jones  was  sat  on  by  his  Uncle  Wash  and 
feels  humble  and  don't  sing  any  more,  and  the  spirit  of 


268  Rolling  Stones 

peace  and  repose  broods  over  its  halls.  Martha  rings  ths 
matin  bell,  it  seems  to  me  before  qock  crow  or  ere  the  first 
faint  streaks  of  dawn  are  limned  in  the  eastern  sky  by  the 
rosy  fingers  of  Aurora.  At  noon  the  foul  ogre  cribbage 
stalks  rampant,  and  seven-up  for  dim,  distant  oysters  that 
only  the  eye  of  faith  can  see. 

The  hour  grows  late.  The  clock  strikes!  Another  day 
has  vanished.  Gone  into  the  dim  recesses  of  the  past, 
leaving  its  record  of  misspent  hours,  false  hopes,  and 
disappointed  expectations.  May  a  morrow  dawn  that  will 
bring  recompense  and  requital  for  the  sorrows  of  the  days 
gone  by,  and  a  new  order  of  things  when  there  will  be 
more  starch  in  cuff  and  collar,  and  less  in  handker 
chiefs. 

Come  with  me  out  into  the  starlight  night.  So  calm, 
so  serene,  ye  lights  of  heaven,  so  high  above  earth;  so  pure 
and  majestic  and  mysterious;  looking  down  on  the  mad 
struggle  of  life  here  below,  is  there  no  pity  in  your  never 
closing  eyes  for  us  mortals  on  which  you  shine? 

Come  with  me  on  to  the  bridge.  Ah,  see  there,  far 
below,  the  dark,  turbid  stream.  Rushing  and  whirling 
and  eddying  under  the  dark  pillars  with  ghostly  murmur 
and  siren  whisper.  What  shall  we  find  in  your  depths? 
The  stars  do  not  reflect  themselves  in  your  waters,  they 
are  too  dark  and  troubled  and  swift!  What  shall  we 
find  in  your  depths?  Rest?  —  Peace?  —  catfish?  Who 
knows?  'Tis  but  a  moment.  A  leap!  A  plunge!  —  and 
—  then  oblivion  or  another  world?  Who  can  tell?  A 
A  man  once  dived  into  your  depths  and  brought  up  a 


Letters  269 

horse  collar  and  a  hoop-skirt.  Ah !  what  do  we  know  of  the 
beyond?  We  know  that  death  comes,  and  we  return  no 
more  to  our  world  of  trouble  and  care  —  but  where  do  we 
go?  Are  there  lands  where  no  traveller  has  been?  A 
chaos  —  perhaps  where  no  human  foot  has  trod  —  per 
haps  Bastrop  —  perhaps  New  Jersey!  Who  knows? 
Where  do  people  go  who  are  in  McDade?  Do  they  go 
where  they  have  to  fare  worse?  They  cannot  go  where 
they  have  worse  fare ! 

Let  us  leave  the  river.  The  night  grows  cold.  We 
could  not  pierce  the  future  or  pay  the  toll.  Come,  the 
ice  factory  is  deserted!  No  one  sees  us.  My  partner, 
W.  P.  Anderson,  will  never  destroy  himself.  Why?  Hia 
credit  is  good.  No  one  will  sue  a  side-partner  of  mine ! 

You  have  heard  of  a  brook  murmuring,  but  you  never 
knew  a  sewer  sighed !  But  we  digress !  We  will  no  longer 
pursue  a  side  issue  like  this.  Au  revoir.  I  will  see  you 
later.  Yours  truly, 

WILLIAM     SHAKESPEARE     INGOMAR    JUNIUS 

BRUTUS    CALLIOPE     SIX-HANDED     EUCHRE 

GROVER  CLEVELAND  HILL  CITY  QUARTETTE 

JOHNSON. 

AN  EARLY  PARABLE 

In  one  of  his  early  letters,  written  from  Austin, 
O.  Henry  wrote  a  long  parable  that  was  evidently  to 
tell  his  correspondent  some  of  the  local  gossip.  Here  it  is: 

Once  upon  a  time  there  was  a  maiden  in  a  land  not  far 


270  Rolling  Stones 

away  —  a  maiden  of  much  beauty  and  rare  accomplish 
ments.  She  was  beloved  by  all  on  account  of  her  goodness 
of  heart,  and  her  many  charms  of  disposition.  Her  father 
was  a  great  lord,  rich  and  powerful,  and  a  mighty  man,  and 
he  loved  his  daughter  with  exceeding  great  love,  and  he 
cared  for  her  with  jealous  and  loving  watchfulness,  lest 
any  harm  should  befall  her,  or  even  the  least  discomfort 
should  mar  her  happiness  and  cause  any  trouble  in  her 
smooth  and  peaceful  life.  The  cunningest  masters  were 
engaged  to  teach  her  from  her  youngest  days;  she  played 
upon  the  harpsichord  the  loveliest  and  sweetest  music; 
she  wrought  fancy  work  in  divers  strange  and  wonderful 
forms  that  might  puzzle  all  beholders  as  to  what  manner 
of  things  they  might  be;  she  sang;  and  all  listeners  heark 
ened  thereunto,  as  to  the  voice  of  an  angel;  she  danced 
stately  minuets  with  the  gay  knights  as  graceful  as  a  queen 
and  as  light  as  the  thistledown  borne  above  the  clover 
blossoms  by  the  wind;  she  could  paint  upon  china,  rare 
and  unknown  flowers  the  like  unto  which  man  never  saw 
in  colors,  crimson  and  blue  and  yellow,  glorious  to  behold; 
she  conversed  in  unknown  tongues  whereof  no  man  knew 
the  meaning  and  sense;  and  created  wild  admiration  in  all, 
by  the  ease  and  grace  with  which  she  did  play  upon  a  new 
and  strange  instrument  of  wondrous  sound  and  structure 
which  she  called  a  banjo. 

She  had  gone  into  a  strange  land,  far  away  beyond  the 
rivers  that  flowed  through  her  father's  dominion  —  farther 
than  one  could  see  from  the  highest  castle  tower  —  up  into 
the  land  of  ice  and  snow,  where  wise  men,  famous  for  learn^ 


Letters  271 

ing  and  ancient  lore  had  gathered  together  from  many 
lands  and  countries  the  daughters  of  great  men.  Kings 
and  powerful  rulers,  railroad  men,  bankers,  mighty  men 
who  wished  to  bring  up  their  children  to  be  wise  and  versed 
in  all  things  old  and  new.  Here,  the  Princess  abode  for 
many  seasons,  and  she  sat  at  the  feet  of  old  wise  men,  who 
could  tell  of  the  world's  birth,  and  the  stars,  and  read  the 
meaning  of  the  forms  of  the  rocks  that  make  the  high 
mountains  and  knew  the  history  of  all  created  things  that 
are;  and  here  she  learned  to  speak  strange  tongues,  and 
studied  the  deep  mysteries  of  the  past  —  the  secrets  of 
the  ancients;  Chaldaic  lore;  Etruscan  inscription;  hidden 
and  mystic  sciences,  and  knew  the  names  of  all  the  flowers 
and  things  that  grow  in  fields  or  wood;  even  unto  the  tiniest 
weed  by  the  brook. 

In  due  time  the  Princess  came  back  to  her  father's 
castle.  The  big  bell  boomed  from  the  high  tower;  the 
heavy  iron  gates  were  thrown  open;  banners  floated  all 
along  the  battlemented  walls,  and  in  the  grand  hall, 
servants  and  retainers  hurried  to  and  fro,  bearing  gold 
dishes,  and  great  bowls  of  flaming  smoking  punch,  while 
oxen  were  roasted  whole  and  hogsheads  of  ale  tapped  on 
the  common  by  the  castle  walls,  and  thither  hied  them  the 
villagers  one  and  all  to  make  merry  at  the  coming  of  the 
i dear  Princess  again.  "She  will  come  back  so  wise  and 
learned,"  they  said,  "so  far  above  us  that  she  will  not 
notice  us  as  she  did  once,"  but  not  so:  the  Princess  with 
a  red  rose  in  her  hair,  and  dressed  so  plain  and  neat  that 
she  looked  more  like  a  farmer's  daughter  than  a  great 


Rolling  Stones 

king's,  came  down  among  them  from  her  father's  side 
with  nods  of  love  and  welcome  on  her  lips,  and  a  smile 
upon  her  face,  and  took  them  by  the  hands  as  in  the  old 
days,  and  none  among  them  so  lowly  or  so  poor  but  what 
received  a  kind  word  from  the  gracious  Princess,  and 
carried  away  in  their  hearts  glad  feelings  that  she  was  still 
the  same  noble  and  gracious  lady  she  always  was.  Then 
night  came,  and  torches  by  thousands  lit  up  the  great 
forest,  and  musicians  played  and  bonfires  glowed,  with 
sparks  flying  like  myriads  of  stars  among  the  gloomy  trees. 

In  the  great  castle  hall  were  gathered  the  brave  knights 
and  the  fairest  ladies  in  the  kingdom.  The  jolly  old  King, 
surrounded  by  the  wise  men  and  officers  of  state  moved 
about  among  his  guests,  stately  and  courteous,  ravishing 
music  burst  forth  from  all  sides,  and  down  the  hall  moved 
the  fair  Princess  in  the  mazy  dance,  on  the  arm  of  a  Knight 
who  gazed  upon  her  face  in  rapt  devotion  and  love.  Who 
was  he  that  dared  to  look  thus  upon  the  daughter  of  the 
King,  sovereign  prince  of  the  kingdom,  and  the  heiress  of 
her  father's  wealth  and  lands. 

He  had  no  title,  no  proud  name  to  place  beside  a  royal 
one,  beyond  that  of  an  honorable  knight,  but  who  says 
that  that  is  not  a  title  that,  borne  worthily,  makes  a  man 
the  peer  of  any  that  wears  a  crown? 

He  had  loved  her  long.  When  a  boy  they  had  roamed 
together  in  the  great  forest  about  the  castle,  and  played 
among  the  fountains  of  the  court  like  brother  and  sister. 
The  King  saw  them  together  often  and  smiled  and  went 
his  way  and  said  nothing.  The  years  went  on  and  they 


Letters  273 

were  together  as  much  as  they  could  be.  The  summer 
days  when  the  court  went  forth  into  the  forest  mounted 
on  prancing  steeds  to  chase  the  stags  with  hounds;  all  clad 
in  green  and  gold  with  waving  plumes  and  shining  silver 
and  ribbons  of  gay  'colors,  this  Knight  was  by  the  Princess' 
side  to  guide  her  through  the  pathless  swamps  where  the 
hunt  ranged,  and  saw  that  no  harm  came  to  her.  And 
now  that  she  had  come  back  after  years  of  absence,  he 
went  to  her  with  fear  lest  she  should  have  changed  from  her 
old  self,  and  would  not  be  to  him  as  she  was  when  they 
were  boy  and  girl  together.  But  no,  there  was  the  same 
old  kindly  welcome,  the  same  smiling  greeting,  the  warm 
pressure  of  the  hand,  the  glad  look  in  the  eyes  as  of  yore. 
The  Knight's  heart  beat  wildly  and  a  dim  new-awakened 
hope  arose  in  him.  Was  she  too  far  away,  after  all? 

He  felt  worthy  of  her,  and  of  any  one  in  fact,  but  he  was 
without  riches,  only  a  knight-errant  with  his  sword  for  his 
fortune,  and  his  great  love  his  only  title;  and  he  had  always 
refrained  from  ever  telling  her  anything  of  his  love,  for 
his  pride  prevented  him,  and  you  know  a  poor  girl  even 
though  she  be  a  princess  cannot  say  to  a  man,  "I  am  rich, 
but,  let  that  be  no  bar  between  us,  I  am  yours  and  will 
let  my  wealth  pass  if  you  will  give  up  your  pride."  No 
princess  can  say  this,  and  the  Knight's  pride  would  not 
let  him  say  anything  of  the  kind  and  so  you  see  there  was 
small  chance  of  their  ever  coming  to  an  understanding. 

Well,  the  feasting  and  dancing  went  on,  and  the  Knight 
and  the  Princess  danced  and  sang  together,  and  walked 
out  where  the  moon  was  making  a  white  wonder  of  the 


274  Rolling  Stones 

great  fountain,  and  wandered  under  the  rows  of  great  oaks, 
but  spoke  no  word  of  love,  though  no  mortal  man  knows 
what  thoughts  passed  in  their  heads;  and  she  gave  long 
accounts  of  the  wonders  she  had  seen  in  the  far,  icy  north, 
in  the  great  school  of  wise  men,  and  the  Knight  talked 
of  the  wild  and  savage  men  he  had  seen  in  the  Far  West, 
where  he  had  been  in  battles  with  the  heathen  in  a  wild 
and  dreary  land;  and  she  heard  with  pity  his  tales  of  suffer 
ing  and  trials  in  the  desert  among  wild  animals  and  fierce 
human  kings;  and  inside  the  castle  the  music  died  away 
and  the  lights  grew  dim  and  the  villagers  had  long  since 
gone  to  their  homes  and  the  Knight  and  the  Princess  still 
talked  of  old  times,  and  the  moon  climbed  high  in  the 
eastern  sky. 

One  day  there  came  news  from  a  country  far  to  the  west 
where  lay  the  possessions  of  the  Knight.  The  enemy  had 
robbed  him  of  his  treasure,  driven  away  his  cattle,  and  he 
found  it  was  best  to  hie  him  away  and  rescue  his  inheri 
tance  and  goods.  He  buckled  on  his  sword  and  mounted 
his  good  war-horse.  He  rode  to  the  postern  gate  of  the 
castle  to  make  his  adieus  to  the  Princess. 

When  he  told  her  he  was  going  away  to  the  wild  western 
country  to  do  battle  with  the  heathen,  she  grew  pale,  and 
her  eyes  took  on  a  look  of  such  pain  and  fear  that  the 
Knight's  heart  leaped  and  then  sank  in  his  bosom,  as  his 
pride  still  kept  him  from  speaking  the  words  that  might 
have  made  all  well. 

She  bade  him  farewell  in  a  low  voice,  and  tears  even 
stood  in  her  eyes,  but  what  could  she  say  or  do? 


Letters  275 

The  Knight  put  spurs  to  his  horse,  and  dashed  away  over 
the  hills  without  ever  looking  back,  and  the  Princess  stood 
looking  over  the  gate  at  him  till  the  last  sight  of  his  plume 
below  the  brow  of  the  hill.  The  Knight  was  gone.  Many 
suitors  flocked  about  the  Princess.  Mighty  lords  and 
barons  of  great  wealth  were  at  her  feet  and  attended 
her  every  journey.  They  came  and  offered  themselves 
and  their  fortunes  again  and  again,  but  none  of  them 
found  favor  in  her  eyes.  "Will  the  Princess  listen  to  no 
one,"  they  began  to  say  among  themselves.  "Has  she 
given  her  heart  to  some  one  who  is  not  among  us?"  No 
one  could  say. 

A  great  and  mighty  physician,  young  and  of  wondrous 
power  in  his  art,  telephoned  to  her  every  night  if  he  might 
come  down.  How  his  suit  prospered  no  one  could  tell, 
but  he  persevered  with  great  and  astonishing  diligence. 
A  powerful  baron  who  assisted  in  regulating  the  finances 
of  the  kingdom  and  who  was  a  direct  descendant  of  a 
great  prince  who  was  cast  into  a  lion's  den,  knelt  at  her 
feet. 

A  gay  and  lively  lord  who  lived  in  a  castle  hung  with 
ribbons  and  streamers  and  gay  devices  of  all  kinds,  with 
other  nobles  of  like  character,  prostrated  themselves  before 
her,  but  she  would  listen  to  none  of  them. 

The  Princess  rode  about  in  quiet  ways  in  the  cool 
evenings  upon  a  gray  palfrey,  alone  and  very  quiet,  and 
she  seemed  to  grow  silent  and  thoughtful  as  time  went  on 
and  no  news  came  from  the  western  wars,  and  the  Knight 
came  not  back  again. 


276  Rolling  Stones 

[Written  to  his  daughter  Margaret.] 

TOLEDO,  Ohio,  Oct.  1,  1900. 

Dear  Margaret:  I  got  your  very  nice,  long  letter  a  good 
many  days  ago.  It  didn't  come  straight  to  me,  but  went 
to  a  wrong  address  first.  I  was  very  glad  indeed  to  hear 
from  you,  and  very,  very  sorry  to  learn  of  your  getting 
your  finger  so  badly  hurt.  I  don't  think  you  were  to 
blame  at  all,  as  you  couldn't  know  just  how  that  villainous 
old  "  hoss  "  was  going  to  bite.  I  do  hope  that  it  will  heal  up 
nicely  and  leave  your  finger  strong.  I  am  learning  to  play 
the  mandolin,  and  we  must  get  you  a  guitar,  and  we  will 
learn  a  lot  of  duets  together  when  I  come  home  which  will 
certainly  not  be  later  than  next  summer,  and  maybe  earlier. 

I  suppose  you  have  started  to  school  again  some  time 
ago.  I  hope  you  like  to  go,  and  don't  have  to  study  too 
hard.  When  one  grows  up,  a  thing  they  never  regret  is 
that  they  went  to  school  long  enough  to  learn  all  they 
could.  It  makes  everything  easier  for  them,  and  if  they 
like  books  and  study  they  can  always  content  and  amuse 
themselves  that  way  even  if  other  people  are  cross  and 
tiresome,  and  the  world  doesn't  go  to  suit  them. 

You  mustn't  think  that  I've  forgotten  somebody's 
birthday.  I  couldn't  find  just  the  thing  I  wanted  to  send, 
but  I  know  where  it  can  be  had,  and  it  will  reach  you  in 
a  few  days.  So,  when  it  comes  you'll  know  it  is  for  a 
birthday  remembrance. 

I  think  you  write  the  prettiest  hand  of  any  little  girl 
(or  big  one,  either)  I  ever  knew.  The  letters  you  make 
are  as  even  and  regular  as  printed  ones.  The  next  time 


Letters  277 

you  write,  tell  me  how  far  you  have  to  go  to  school  and 
whether  you  go  alone  or  not. 

I  am  busy  all  the  time  writing  for  the  papers  and  maga 
zines  all  over  the  country,  so  I  don't  have  a  chance  to 
come  home,  but  I'm  going  to  try  to  come  this  winter.  If 
I  don't  I  will  by  summer  sure,  and  then  you'll  have  some 
body  to  boss  and  make  trot  around  with  you. 

Write  me  a  letter  whenever  you  have  some  time  to 
spare,  for  I  am  always  glad  and  anxious  to  hear  from  you. 
Be  careful  when  you  are  on  the  streets  not  to  feed  shucks 
to  strange  dogs,  or  pat  snakes  on  the  head  or  shake  hands 
with  cats  you  haven't  been  introduced  to,  or  stroke  the 
noses  of  electric  car  horses. 

Hoping  you  are  well  and  your  finger  is  getting  all  right, 
I  am,  with  much  love,  as  ever,  PAPA. 

My  Dear  Margaret:  Here  it  is  summertime,  and  the 
bees  are  blooming  and  the  flowers  are  singing  and  the 
birds  making  honey,  and  we  haven't  been  fishing  yet. 
Well,  there's  only  one  more  month  till  July,  and  then  we'll 
go,  and  no  mistake.  I  thought  you  would  write  and  tell 
me  about  the  high  water  around  Pittsburg  some  time  ago, 
and  whether  it  came  up  to  where  you  live,  or  not.  And  I 
haven't  heard  a  thing  about  Easter,  and  about  the  rabbit's 
eggs  —  but  I  suppose  you  have  learned  by  this  time  that 
eggs  grow  on  egg  plants  and  are  not  laid  by  rabbits. 

I  would  like  very  much  to  hear  from  you  oftener,  it 
has  been  more  than  a  month  now  since  you  wrote.  Write 
soon  and  tell  me  how  you  are,  and  when  school  will  be  out, 


278  Rolling  Stones 

for  we  want  plenty  of  holidays  in  July  so  we  can  have  a 
good  time.  I  am  going  to  send  you  something  nice  the 
last  of  this  week.  What  do  you  guess  it  will  be? 

Lovingly,  PAPA. 

The  Caledonia 

WEDNESDAY. 
My  Dear  Mr.  Jack: 

I  owe  Gilman  Hall  $175  (or  mighty  close  to  it)  pusson- 
ally  —  so  he  tells  me.  I  thought  it  was  only  about  $30, 
but  he  has  been  keeping  the  account. 

He's  just  got  to  have  it  to-day.  McClures  will  pay 
me  some  money  on  the  15th  of  June,  but  I  can't  get  it  until 
then.  I  was  expecting  it  before  this  —  anyhow  before 
Gilman  left,  but  they  stick  to  the  letter. 

I  wonder  if  you  could  give  me  a  check  for  that  much  to 
pay  him  to-day.  If  you  will  I'll  hold  up  my  right  hand  — 
thus:  that  I'll  have  you  a  first-class  story  on  your  desk 
before  the  last  of  this  week. 

I  reckon  I'm  pretty  well  overdrawn,  but  I've  sure  got 
to  see  that  Hall  gets  his  before  he  leaves.  I  don't  want 
anything  for  myself. 

Please,  sir,  let  me  know  right  away,  by  return  boy  if 
you'll  do  it. 

If  you  can't,  I'll  have  to  make  a  quick  dash  at  the 
three-ball  magazines;  and  I  do  hate  to  tie  up  with  them 
for  a  story. 

The  Same 

Mr.  J.  O.  H.  COSGBAVE,  SYDNEY  PORTER. 

at  this  time  editor  of  Everybody's  Magazine. 


Letters  279 

A  letter  to  Gilman  Hall,  written  just  before  the  writer's 
marriage  to  Miss  Sara  Lindsay  Coleman  oi  Asheville, 
N,  C. 

WEDNESDAY. 
Dear  Gilman: 

Your  two  letters  received  this  A.  M.  Mighty  good 
letters,  too,  and  cheering. 

Mrs.  Jas.  Coleman  is  writing  Mrs.  Hall  to-day.  She  is 
practically  the  hostess  at  Wynn  Cottage  where  the  hul 
labaloo  will  occur. 

Say,  won't  you  please  do  one  or  two  little  things  for  me 
before  you  leave,  as  you  have  so  kindly  offered? 

(1)  Please  go  to  Tiffany's  and  get  a  wedding  ring, 
size  5|.     Sara  says  the  bands  worn  now  are  quite  narrow 
— and  that's  the  kind  she  wants. 

(2)  And  bring  me  a  couple  of  dress  collars,  size  16|. 
I  have  ties. 

(3)  And  go  to  a  florist's  —  there  is  one  named  Mack 
intosh  (or  something  like  that)  on  Broadway,  East  side  of 
street  five  or  six  doors  north  of  26th  St.,  where  I  used 
to  buy  a  good  many  times.     He  told  me  he  could  ship 
flowers  in  good  shape  to  Asheville  —  you  might  remind 
him  that  I  used  to  send  flowers  to  36  West  17th  Street 
some  time  ago.     I  am  told  by  the  mistress  of  ceremonies 
that  I  am  to  furnish  two  bouquets  —  one  of  lilies  of  the 
valley  and  one  of  pale  pink  roses.     Get  plenty  of  each  — 
say  enough  lilies  to  make  a  large  bunch  to  be  carried  in  the 
hand,  and  say  three  or  four  dozen  of  the  roses. 


280  Rolling  Stones 

I  note  what  you  say  about  hard  times  and  will  take 
heed.  I'm  not  going  into  any  extravagances  at  all,  and 
I'm  going  to  pitch  into  hard  work  just  as  soon  as  I  get  the 
rice  grains  out  of  my  ear. 

I  wired  you  to-day  "MS.  mailed  to-day,  please  rush  one 
century  by  wire." 

That  will  exhaust  the  Reader  check  —  if  it  isn't  too 
exhausted  itself  to  come.  You,  of  course,  will  keep  the 
check  when  it  arrives  —  I  don't  think  they  will  fall  down 
on  it  surely.  I  wrote  Rowland  a  pretty  sharp  letter  and 
ordered  him  to  send  it  at  once  care  of  Everybody's. 

When  this  story  reaches  you  it  will  cut  down  the  over 
draft  "right  smart,"  but  if  the  house  is  willing  I'd  mighty 
well  like  to  run  it  up  to  the  limit  again,  because  cash  is  sure 
scarce,  and  I'll  have  to  have  something  like  $300  more  to 
see  me  through.  The  story  I  am  sending  is  a  new  one; 
I  still  have  another  partly  written  for  you,  which  I  shall 
finish  and  turn  in  before  I  get  back  to  New  York  and  then 
we'll  begin  to  clean  up  all  debts. 

Just  after  the  wedding  we  are  going  to  Hot  Spring,  N.  C., 
only  thirty-five  miles  from  Asheville,  where  there  is  a  big 
winter  resort  hotel,  and  stay  there  about  a  week  or  ten 
days.  Then  back  to  New  York. 

Please  look  over  the  story  and  arrange  for  bringing  me  the 
$300  when  you  come — it  will  still  keep  me  below  the  allowed 
limit  and  thereafter  I  will  cut  down  instead  of  raising  it. 

Just  had  a  'phone  message  from  S.  L.  C.  saying  how 
pleased  she  was  with  your  letter  to  her. 

I'm  right  with  you  on  the  question  of  the  "home-like" 


Letters  281 

system  of  having  fun.  I  think  we'll  all  agree  beautifully 
on  that.  I've  had  all  the  cheap  bohemia  that  I  want. 
I  can  tell  you,  none  of  the  "climbers"  and  the  cocktail 
crowd  are  going  to  bring  their  vapor  ings  into  my  house. 
It's  for  the  clean,  merry  life,  with  your  best  friends  in  the 
game  and  a  general  concentration  of  energies  and  aims. 
I  am  having  a  cedarwood  club  cut  from  the  mountains 
with  knots  on  it,  and  I  am  going  to  stand  in  my  hallway 
(when  I  have  one)  and  edit  with  it  the  cards  of  all  callers. 
You  and  Mrs.  will  have  latchkeys,  of  course. 

Yes,  I  think  you'd  better  stay  at  the  hotel Of  course 

they'd  want  you  out  at  Mrs.  C's.  But  suppose  we  take 
Mrs.  Hall  out  there,  and  you  and  I  remain  at  the  B.  P. 
We'll  be  out  at  the  Cottage  every  day  anyhow,  and  it'll 
be  scrumptious  all  round. 

I'm  simply  tickled  to  death  that  "you  all"  are  coming. 

The  protoplasm  is  in  Heaven;  all's  right  with  the  world. 
Pippa  passes.  Yours  as  ever, 

BILL. 

FRIDAY. 
My  Dear  Col.  Griffith: 

Keep  your  shirt  on.  I  found  I  had  to  re-write  the 
story  when  it  came  in.  I  am  sending  you  part  of  it  just  so 
you  will  have  something  tangible  to  remind  you  that  you 
can't  measure  the  water  from  the  Pierian  Spring  in  spoon 
fuls. 

I've  got  the  story  in  much  better  form;  and  I'll  have  the 
rest  of  it  ready  this  evening. 


Rolling  Stones 

I'm  sorry  to  have  delayed  it;  but  it's  best  for  both  of  us 
to  have  it  a  little  late  and  a  good  deal  better. 

I'll  send  over  the  rest  before  closing  time  this  afternoon 
or  the  first  thing  in  the  morning. 

In  its  revised  form  I'm  much  better  pleased  with  it. 
Yours  truly, 

SYDNEY  PORTER. 

Mr.  Al.  Jennings,  of  Oklahoma  City,  was  an  early 
friend  of  O.  Henry's.  Now,  in  1912,  a  prominent  attorney, 
Mr.  Jennings,  in  his  youth,  held  up  trains. 

28  W.  26.  N.  Y.,  SUNDAY. 

ALGIE  JENNINGS,  ESQ.,  THE  WEST. 
DEAR  BILL: 

Glad  you've  been  sick  too.     I'm  well  again.     Are  you? 

Well,  as  I  had  nothing  to  do  I  thought  I  would  write 
you  a  letter;  and  as  I  have  nothing  to  say  I  will  close. 

How  are  ye,  Bill?  How's  old  Initiative  and  Referen 
dum?  When  you  coming  back  to  Manhattan?  You 
wouldn't  know  the  old  town  now.  Main  Street  is  building 
up,  and  there  is  talk  of  an  English  firm  putting  up  a  new 
hotel.  I  saw  Duffy  a  few  days  ago.  He  looks  kind  of 
thoughtful  as  if  he  were  trying  to  calculate  how  much  he'd 
have  been  ahead  on  Gerald's  board  and  clothes  by  now 
if  you  had  taken  him  with  you.  Mrs.  Hale  is  up  in  Maine 
for  a  3  weeks'  vacation. 

Say,  Bill,  I'm  sending  your  MS.  back  by  mail  to-day. 
I  kept  it  a  lif tie  longer  after  you  sent  for  it  because  one  of 
the  McClure  &  Phillips  firm  wanted  to  see  it  first.  Every- 


Letters  283 

body  says  it  is  full  of  good  stuff,  but  thinks  it  should  be  put 
in  a  more  connected  shape  by  some  skilful  writer  who  has 
been  trained  to  that  sort  work. 

It  seems  to  me  that  you  ought  to  do  better  with  it  out 
there  than  you  could  here.  If  you  can  get  somebody  out 
there  to  publish  it  it  ought  to  sell  all  right.  N.  Y.  is  a 
pretty  cold  proposition  and  it  can't  see  as  far  as  the 
Oklahoma  country  when  it  is  looking  for  sales.  How 
about  trying  Indianapolis  or  Chicago?  Duffy  told  me 
about  the  other  MS  sent  out  by  your  friend  Abbott. 
Kind  of  a  bum  friendly  trick,  wasn't  it? 

Why  don't  you  get  "Arizona's  Hand"  done  and  send 
it  on?  Seems  to  me  you  could  handle  a  short  story 
all  right. 

My  regards  to  Mrs.  Jennings  and  Bro.  Frank.  Write 
some  more.  Still 

BILL. 

N.  Y.,  May  23,  '05. 
Dear  Jennings: 

Got  your  letter  all  right.     Hope  you'll  follow  it  soon. 

I'd  advise  you  not  to  build  any  high  hopes  on  your 
book  —  just  consider  that  you're  on  a  little  pleasure  trip? 
and  taking  it  along  as  a  side  line.  Mighty  few  MSS.  ever 
get  to  be  books,  and  mighty  few  books  pay. 

I  have  to  go  to  Pittsburg  the  first  of  next  week  to  be 
gone  about  3  or  4  days.  If  you  decide  to  come  here  any 
time  after  the  latter  part  of  next  week  I  will  be  ready  to 
meet  you.  Let  me  know  in  advance  a  day  or  two. 


284  Rolling  Stones 

Gallot  is  in  Grand  Rapids  —  maybe  he  will  run  over 
for  a  day  or  two. 

In  haste  and  truly  yours, 

W.  S.  P. 

[It  was  hard  to  get  O.  Henry  to  take  an  interest  in  his  books.  He 
was  always  eager  to  be  at  the  undone  work,  to  be  writing  a  new  story 
instead  of  collecting  old  ones.  This  letter  came  from  North  Carolina. 
It  shows  how  much  thought  he  gave  always  to  titles.] 

LAND  o'  THE  SKY,  Monday,  1909. 

My  Dear  Colonel  Steger:  As  I  wired  you  to-day,  I  like 
"Man  About  Town"  for  a  title. 

But  I  am  sending  in  a  few  others  for  you  to  look  at;  and 
if  any  other  suits  you  better,  I'm  agreeable.  Here  they 
are,  in  preferred  order: 

The  Venturers. 

Transfers. 

Merry-Go-Rounds. 

Babylonica. 

Brickdust  from  Babel. 

Babes  in  the  Jungle. 

If  none  of  these  hit  you  right,  let  me  know  and  I'll  get 
busy  again.  But  I  think  "  Man  About  Town  "  is  about  the 
right  thing.  It  gives  the  city  idea  without  using  the  old 
hackneyed  words. 

I  am  going  to  write  you  a  letter  in  a  day  or  so  "  touchin' 
on  and  appertainin'  to"  other  matter  and  topics.  I  am 
still  improving  and  feeling  pretty  good.  Colonel  Bingham 
has  put  in  a  new  ash-sifter  and  expects  you  to  come  down 
and  see  that  it  works  all  right. 


Letters  285 

All  send  regards  to  you.  You  seem  to  have  made  quite 
a  hit  down  here  for  a  Yankee. 

Salutations  and  good  wishes.  Yours,         S,  P. 

[This  letter  was  found  unfinished,  among  his  papers  after  his  death. 
His  publishers  had  discussed  many  times  his  writing  of  a  novel,  but  the 
following  letter  constitutes  the  only  record  of  his  own  opinions  hi  the 
matter.  The  date  is  surely  1909  or  1910.] 

My  Dear  Mr.  Sieger:  My  idea  is  to  write  the  story  of  a 
man  —  an  individual,  not  a  type  —  but  a  man  who,  at 
the  same  time,  I  want  to  represent  a  "human  nature 
type,"  if  such  a  person  could  exist.  The  story  will  teach 
no  lesson,  inculcate  no  moral,  advance  no  theory. 

I  want  it  to  be  something  that  it  won't  or  can't  be  —  but 
as  near  as  I  can  make  it  —  the  true  record  of  a  man's 
thoughts,  his  description  of  his  mischances  and  adventures, 
his  true  opinions  of  life  as  he  has  seen  it  and  his  absolutely 
honest  deductions,  comments,  and  views  upon  the  different 
phases  of  life  that  he  passes  through. 

I  do  not  remember  ever  to  have  read  an  autobiography, 
a  biography,  or  a  piece  of  fiction  that  told  the  truth.  Of 
course,  I  have  read  stuff  such  as  Rousseau  and  Zola  and 
George  Moore  and  various  memoirs  that  were  supposed 
to  be  window  panes  in  their  respective  breasts;  but, 
mostly,  all  of  them  were  either  liars,  actors,  or  posers. 
(Of  course,  I'm  not  trying  to  belittle  the  greatness  of  their 
literary  expression.) 

All  of  us  have  to  be  prevaricators,  hypocrites  and  liars 
every  day  of  our  lives;  otherwise  the  social  structure 
would  fall  into  pieces  the  first  day.  We  must  act  in  one 


286  Rolling  Stones 

another's  presence  just  as  we  must  wear  clothes.  It  is 
for  the  best. 

The  trouble  about  writing  the  truth  has  been  that  the 
writers  have  kept  in  their  minds  one  or  another  or  all  of 
three  thoughts  that  made  a  handicap  —  they  were  trying 
either  to  do  a  piece  of  immortal  literature,  or  to  shock 
the  public  or  to  please  editors.  Some  of  them  suc 
ceeded  in  all  three,  but  they  did  not  write  the  truth. 
Most  autobiographies  are  insincere  from  beginning  to  end. 
About  the  only  chance  for  the  truth  to  be  told  is  in  fiction. 

It  is  well  understood  that  "all  the  truth"  cannot  be 
told  in  print  —  but  how  about  "nothing  but  the  truth"? 
That's  what  I  want  to  do. 

I  want  the  man  who  is  telling  the  story  to  tell  it  —  not 
as  he  would  to  a  reading  public  or  to  a  confessor  —  but 
something  in  this  way :  Suppose  he  were  marooned  on  an 
island  in  mid-ocean  with  no  hope  of  ever  being  rescued; 
and,  in  order  to  pass  away  some  of  the  time  he  should  tell 
a  story  to  himself  embodying  his  adventure  and  ex 
periences  and  opinions.  Having  a  certain  respect  for 
himself  (let  us  hope)  he  would  leave  out  the  "realism" 
that  he  would  have  no  chance  of  selling  in  the  market; 
he  would  omit  the  lies  and  self-conscious  poses,  and 
would  turn  out  to  his  one  auditor  something  real  and  true. 

So,  as  truth  is  not  to  be  found  in  history,  autobi- 
ography,  press  reports  (nor  at  the  bottom  of  an  H.  G. 
Wells),  let  us  hope  that  fiction  may  be  the  means  of  bring* 
ing  out  a  few  grains  of  it. 

The  " hero  "  of  the  story  will  be  a  man  born  and  "raised" 


Letters  287 

in  a  somnolent  little  southern  town.  His  education  is 
about  a  common  school  one,  but  he  learns  afterward  from 
reading  and  life.  I'm  going  to  try  to  give  him  a  "style" 
in  narrative  and  speech  —  the  best  I've  got  in  the  shop. 
I'm  going  to  take  him  through  all  the  main  phases  of  life  — 
wild  adventure,  city,  society,  something  of  the  "under 
world,"  and  among  many  characteristic  planes  of  the 
phases.  I  want  him  to  acquire  all  the  sophistication  that 
experience  can  give  him,  and  always  preserve  his  individual 
honest  human  view,  and  have  him  tell  the  truth  about 
everything. 

It  is  time  to  say  now,  that  by  the  "truth"  I  don't  mean 
the  objectionable  stuff  that  so  often  masquerades  under 
the  name.  I  mean  true  opinions  a  true  estimate  of  all 
things  as  they  seem  to  the  "hero."  If  you  find  a  word  or 
a  suggestive  line  or  sentence  in  any  of  my  copy,  you  cut  it 
out  and  deduct  it  from  the  royalties. 

I  want  this  man  to  be  a  man  of  natural  intelligence,  of 
individual  character,  absolutely  open  and  broad  minded; 
and  show  how  the  Creator  of  the  earth  has  got  him  in  a 
rat  trap  —  put  him  here  "willy  nilly"  (you  know  the 
Omar  verse);  and  then  I  want  to  show  what  he  does 
about  it.  There  is  always  the  eternal  question  from  the 
Primal  Source  —  "What  are  you  going  to  do  about  it?" 

Please  don't  think  for  the  half  of  a  moment  that  the 
story  is  going  to  be  anything  of  an  autobiography.  I  have 
a  distinct  character  in  my  mind  for  the  part,  and  he  does 
*iot  at  all 

(Here  the  letter  ends.     He  never  finished  it.) 


288  Rolling  Stones 

THE  STORY  OF  "HOLDING  UP  A  TRAIN" 

In  "Sixes  and  Sevens"  there  appears  an  article  en 
titled  "Holding  Up  a  Train."  Now  the  facts  were  given 
to  O.  Henry  by  an  old  and  dear  friend  who,  in  his  wild 
avenging  youth,  had  actually  held  up  trains.  To-day 
he  is  Mr.  Al.  Jennings,  of  Oklahoma  City,  Okla.,  a  promi 
nent  attorney.  He  has  permitted  the  publication  of 
two  letters  O.  Henry  wrote  him,  the  first  outlining  the 
story  as  he  thought  his  friend  Jennings  ought  to  write 
it,  and  the  second  announcing  that,  with  O.  Henry's 
revision,  the  manuscript  had  been  accepted. 

From  W.  S.  Porter  to  Al.  Jennings,  September  21st 
(year  not  given  but  probably  1902). 

DEAR  PARD: 

In  regard  to  that  article  —  I  will  give  you  my  idea  of 
what  is  wanted.  Say  we  take  for  a  title  "The  Art  and 
Humor  of  the  Hold-up "  —  or  something  like  that.  I 
would  suggest  that  hi  writing  you  assume  a  character. 
We  have  got  to  respect  the  conventions  and  delusions  of 
the  public  to  a  certain  extent.  An  article  written  as 
you  would  naturally  write  it  would  be  regarded  as  a  fake 
and  an  imposition.  Remember  that  the  traditions  must 
be  preserved  wherever  they  will  not  interfere  with  the 
truth.  Write  in  as  simple,  plain  and  unembellished  a 
style  as  you  know  how.  Make  your  sentences  short. 
Put  in  as  much  realism  and  as  many  facts  as  possible. 
Where  you  want  to  express  an  opinion  or  comment  on 


Letters  289 

the  matter  do  it  as  practically  and  plainly  as  you  can. 
Give  it  life  and  the  vitality  of  facts. 

Now,  I  will  give  you  a  sort  of  general  synopsis  of  my 
idea  —  of  course,  everything  is  subject  to  your  own 
revision  and  change.  The  article,  we  will  say,  is  written 
by  a  typical  train  hoister  —  one  without  your  education 
and  powers  of  expression  (bouquet)  but  intelligent  enough 
to  convey  his  ideas  from  his  standpoint  —  not  from  John 
Wanamaker's.  Yet,  in  order  to  please  John,  we  will  have 
to  assume  a  virtue  that  we  do  not  possess.  Comment 
on  the  moral  side  of  the  proposition  as  little  as  possible. 
Do  not  claim  that  holding  up  trains  is  the  only  business 
a  gentleman  would  engage  in,  and,  on  the  contrary,  do 
not  depreciate  a  profession  that  is  really  only  financiering 
with  spurs  on.  Describe  the  facts  and  details  —  all  that 
part  of  the  proceedings  that  the  passenger  sitting  with  his 
hands  up  in  a  Pullman  looking  into  the  end  of  a  tunnel 
in  the  hands  of  one  of  the  performers  does  not  see.  Here 
is  a  rough  draft  of  my  idea:  Begin  abruptly,  without 
any  philosophizing,  with  your  idea  of  the  best  times, 
places  and  conditions  for  the  hold-up  —  compare  your 
opinions  of  this  with  those  of  others  —  mention  some 
poorly  conceived  attempts  and  failures  of  others,  giving 
your  opinion  why  —  as  far  as  possible  refer  to  actual 
occurrences,  and  incidents  —  describe  the  manner  of  a 
hold-up,  how  many  men  is  best,  where  they  are  stationed, 
how  do  they  generally  go  into  it,  nervous?  or  joking?  or 
solemnly.  The  details  of  stopping  the  train,  the  duties 
of  each  man  of  the  gang  —  the  behavior  of  the  train 


290  Rolling  Stones 

crew  and  passengers  (here  give  as  many  brief  odd  and 
humorous  incidents  as  you  can  think  of).  Your  opinions 
on  going  through  the  passengers,  when  is  it  done  and  when 
not  done.  How  is  the  boodle  gotten  at?  How  does  the 
express  clerk  generally  take  it?  Anything  done  with  the 
mail  car?  Under  what  circumstances  will  a  train  robber 
shoot  a  passenger  or  a  train  man  —  suppose  a  man  refuses 
to  throw  up  his  hands?  Queer  articles  found  on  pas 
sengers  (a  chance  here  for  some  imaginative  work)  — 
queer  and  laughable  incidents  of  any  kind.  Refer  when 
ever  apropos  to  actual  hold-ups  and  facts  concerning  them 
of  interest.  What  could  two  or  three  brave  and  de 
termined  passengers  do  if  they  were  to  try?  Why  don't 
they  try?  How  long  does  it  take  to  do  the  business. 
Does  the  train  man  ever  stand  in -with  the  hold-up? 
Best  means  of  getting  away  —  how  and  when  is 
the  money  divided.  How  is  it  mostly  spent.  Best 
way  to  manoeuvre  afterward.  Hew  to  get  caught  and 
how  not  to.  Comment  on  the  methods  of  officials 
who  try  to  capture.  (Here's  your  chance  to  get 
even.) 

These  ideas  are  some  that  occur  to  me  casually.  You 
will,  of  course,  have  many  far  better.  I  suggest  that  you 
make  the  article  anywhere  from  4,000  to  6,000  words. 
Get  as  much  meat  in  it  as  you  can,  and,  by  the  way  — 
stuff  it  full  of  western  genuine  slang  —  (not  the  eastern 
story  paper  kind) .  Get  all  the  quaint  cowboy  expressions 
and  terms  of  speech  you  can  think  of. 

Information  is  what  we  want,  clothed  in  the  peculiar 


Letters  291 

western  style  of  the  character  we  want  to  present.     The 
main  idea  is  to  be  natural,  direct,  and  concise. 

I  hope  you  will  understand  what  I  say.  I  don't.  But 
try  her  a  whack  and  send  it  along  as  soon  as  you  can,  and 
let's  see  what  we  can  do.  By  the  way,  Mr.  "Everybody" 
pays  good  prices.  I  thought  I  would,  when  I  get  your 
story,  put  it  into  the  shape  my  judgment  decides  upon, 
and  then  send  both  your  MS.  and  mine  to  the  magazine. 
If  he  uses  mine,  we'll  whack  up  shares  on  the  proceeds,, 
If  he  uses  yours,  you  get  the  check  direct.  If  he  uses 
neither,  we  are  out  only  a  few  stamps. 

Sincerely  your  friend, 

W.  S.  P. 

And  here  is  the  letter  telling  his  "pard"  that  the  article 
had  been  bought  by  Everybody's  Magazine.  This  is 
dated  Pittsburg,  October  24th,  obviously  the  same  year: 

DEAR  PARD: 

You're  It.  I  always  told  you  you  were  a  genius. 
All  you  need  is  to  succeed  in  order  to  make  a  success. 

I  enclose  pubrs  letter  which  explains  itself.  When 
you  see  your  baby  in  print  don't  blame  me  if  you  find 
strange  ear  marks  and  brands  on  it.  I  slashed  it  and  cut 
it  and  added  lots  of  stuff  that  never  happened,  but  I 
followed  your  facts  and  ideas,  and  that  is  what  made  it 
valuable.  I'll  think  up  some  other  idea  for  an  article 
and  we'll  collaborate  again  some  time  —  eh? 

I  have  all  the  work  I  can  do,  and  am  selling  it  right 
along.  Have  averaged  about  $150  per  month  since 


292  Rolling  Stones 

August  1st.  And  yet  I  don't  overwork  —  don't  think 
I  ever  will.  I  commence  about  9  A.  M.  and  generally 
knock  off  about  4  or  5  p.  M. 

As  soon  as  check  mentioned  in  letter  comes  I'll  send  you 
your  "sheer"  of  the  boodle. 

By  the  way,  please  keep  my  nom  de  plume  strictly  to 
yourself.  I  don't  want  any  one  to  know  just  yet. 

Give  my  big  regards  to  Billy.  Reason  with  him  and 
try  to  convince  him  that  we  believe  him  to  be  pure  merino 
and  of  more  than  average  width.  With  the  kindest 
remembrances  to  yourself  I  remain, 

Your  friend, 

W.  S.  P. 

At  this  time  O.  Henry  was  unknown  and  thought  him 
self  lucky  to  sell  a  story  at  any  price. 


THE  END 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


-C'D 


QBRARY  USE 


JAN  2  11*82 

— JAN  a  1  1082 


LD  21A-50m-ll,'62 
(D3279slO)476B 


General  T 
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